Tritocanonical: Asymmetry—Destiny 1
by Order and Chaos - Qui Iudicant
Summary: Guardians strike at strongholds of the enemy, felling fearsome foes to reclaim a forgotten Age, while dancing and fooling around along the way. "Dive into the Darkness—ignite the flame within! Now there is no turning back... let the future begin." (2/38)
1. Basilinna

~X~

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

 ** _Basilinna_**

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

" _The House of Kings? Yeah, I know 'em. Either as large as Devils or else infiltrated them so thoroughly as to make themselves invisible. No one has ever found their top leadership and lived to tell about it. Well, except perhaps The Seraphim, but hey, they ain't gonna share anything with us_ unless _it benefits them. But that's a whole 'nother story."  
_ —Cayde-6 _  
_

* * *

A delta-wing shape shot through the skies.

Aboard, Guardian Cheyah Palpatine guided the ship from out the clouds and down below. The Appalachian mountains loomed beneath her _Phaeton_ -class v1.1 jumpship, their bulk passing by swiftly as she decelerated. In another life—dimly remembered—she once lived and worked here. Her Ghost had located her in a blasted city not far from the mountains, closer toward the Eastern seaboard. Beyond that her memories were faded, like dim curtains, both grey and foggy.

She was a petite woman in her early thirties, light-green eyes scanning the monitor as her ship banked into a turn. In another life she might have been a white collar worker, her features pixyish and cute but not model-like, and utterly unremarkable. Her asymmetrically cut hair was a natural black, but ever since her resurrection she kept it dyed white. Many speculated as to why, some coming close to the truth, but none figured out. Those who knew her, admittedly few, respected her privacy.

"We're coming over the city now."

"Thank you, Ghost," she answered. "Can you prepare my weapons for transmat once we're in position?"

"Of course. Do you want _Noisemaker_ this time or just _Silence_?"

Cheyah thought for a moment on that. At last she said, "I'd prefer _Silence_. We're going in quietly, and we've no backup."

"Understood."

The drone transmatted away to another part of the ship. It was easier that way than fly to the armory. Cheyah turned to where she could see, through the screen, the ruined skyline of what once had been a thriving city, a major metropolitan area of the North American Empire. It had a name, but now all that was left was the fall. Long ago towering skyscrapers had pierced the sky, queues of aerial traffic crisscrossing between, and jumpships descending toward special airfields alongside airports where advanced planes departed. Now, like so much of Earth, this was a dead place devoid of human habitation. It would be suicide to live here.

The Fallen were very protective of their territory.

Cheyah's grey jumpship, _The Overshadow_ , angled over an old parking lot now mostly surrounded by grass and greenery. Once she ensured it was in hover-mode she pressed a button, preparing to transmat herself. it was too dangerous to actually land and go down the gangplank.

Immediately she felt a thrill of euphoria, as if she were physically flying—falling, really, like a skydiver—through the air. A tingling sensation began to spread throughout her body, starting at her toes and fingertips and converging at her torso. Then her gut doubled-up and she literally _twisted_ about as if a vortex had opened inside—and then, with a rush of cold American air, she was spat out onto the ground standing upright where, moments before, she had been sitting.

Repressing the urge to fall down and vomit she instead took stock of the area. A single stretch of pavement led into the parking lot, spiderwebbed with cracks and moss, a cluster of trees growing where a building used to stand, its ancient walls lining the edge of the lot—did this used to be a fastfood place, or a gas station?—and for miles around a clear open view of the rest of the city. Cheyah could see wherever the Fallen chose to come at her, and that suited her, even if it meant exposing herself in the process.

Then again, so what? They'd have seen her coming anyway. Good that they did. She wanted them to know.

Suddenly her back felt burdened, a weight pulling down on her; she automatically reached around to feel the sniper rifle. Good old _Silence_ , its long muzzle comforting to the touch. Cheyah's Ghost appeared not long after, white shell glinting as sunlight reflected off. "Where to first, Palpatine?" it asked, voice female.

"Downtown. I have a hunch we'll find what we are looking for soon enough."

"Don't your hunches often lead to us walking straight into an ambush?"

"Relax, Ghost, we're not escorting refugees. Sparrow, please?" Cheyah adjusted the weight of her twin hand cannons, resting in their holsters on her waist.

"And we don't have a backup plan, either," Ghost retorted.

"I always have a backup plan," her partner answered, smile hidden behind her helm. "Me."

The drone sighed, an amusing gesture in any circumstance. "You're the boss." She disappeared, and in her place hovered Cheyah's Sparrow. Quickly leaping on, grunting as she settled into her seat, the Guardian gunned the engine and blasted off. Angling to the left, she turned to head into downtown, her robes flapping in the wind.

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

Removing its eye from the scope, a Vandal turned to hiss at another. Behind them, stationed at the edges of the half-caved in, three-storey building were two Shanks, gold bodies hovering in place through the means of independent thrusters. They were to keep watch for any surprises, not that the Fallen expect any.

" _The Light-stealer is here,_ " the first Vandal said, pointing as the jumpship disappeared off into orbit, beyond their reach. " _It is too reckless. We shall have its soul!_ "

" _Not reckless,_ " the other replied. " _They know what they are doing as often as naught._ "

" _They aren't the fire-demons!_ "

" _Fire-demons do not come back from the dead. Don't let its tactics trick you. They know exactly what they're doing._ "

" _Alert the_ Basilinna," the first growled, whether in defeat or exasperation, one couldn't tell.

Both Kings Vandals turned and left; the Shanks remained, their job to keep watch for the Guardian's ship and report if it returned to this location. Outside hovered their Pikes, long and angular. Both hopped on and activated them. Before setting off, one spoke into an encrypted comms channel, clicking rapidly. It wasn't likely they'd be picked up by eavesdroppers, but the Fallen were not stupid. The radio barked with confirmation.

With a roar the Pikes sped off, angling for an intercept course.

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

The cold air whistled by as Cheyah zipped through an ancient thoroughfare. The pavement was cracked and moss and grass grew in the jagged marks. The street was devoid of vehicles apart from her own, having fled for the spaceport in the Collapse. Cheyah angled her flight and the Sparrow flew over a ramp formed by debris over a fallen section of building.

For the past thirty minutes nothing had happened—no Fallen Shanks had attempted to ambush her, nor did Arc rounds whizz by her head. Everything was silent except for her vehicle.

" _I have got a very bad feeling about this_ ," Ghost said, seemingly right by her ear. " _If this were the European Dead Zone we would have been swarmed by now_."

"It is not. We are in the ADZ, Kings' domain," she answered.

" _Just be on your guard_."

After that there was little in the way of conversation. Unlike most Guardians Cheyah seldom chatted with her Ghost when in the field, preferring to be moving rather than talking. Ghost was the same way, speaking only when she felt it was necessary. Loneliness was not a problem; this world was such an alien place, so different from what Cheyah had known, it often felt it was a dream. Not at all real.

Her mentor had assured her it wasn't uncommon for Guardians to feel out of place, detached from those they fight to protect. Memory was lost and few, if any, ever remembered their past. Ironically enough the Exo robots remembered more of their former lives than did their human counterparts. Those few who did were often looking for ways to find more stimulus to "jog" their memory, spending time with the Cryptarchy and aiding their searches. Not Cheyah. It distracted from the fighting.

The fighting was all she lived for. Not a day went by that she saw the scared and scarred faces of countless refugees streaming into the City. It was the same when she went out in the field: alien pirates picking over the remains of these same refugees' heritage, callous in their disregard for culture and history. Never mind the fact it was a few hundred years—was it, really?—since the Collapse. Very likely it was that none of the refugees had ever experienced the benefits of peace and prosperity from that long ago Golden. They always lived on the run, had no one to protect them or lead them, fearful for their lives—or more often, fearful for the lives of their children.

That was why she was here, in the ADZ. Not many Guardians came here, their main strength focused on fighting the Devils in Old Russia, of protecting an ungrateful Warmind. No, this Dead Zone was devoid of human habitation, the sole stronghold of the Fallen Kings. Save, perhaps, the Seraphim. Not that it mattered. Cheyah was a Guardian, and with her… unique skills… she could go anywhere she pleased. Not that she had any choice.

Her target's name had been whispered among the trembling, cracked lips of the City's most recent refugees. _Basilinna_. It was derived from a Fallen word, related closely to a similar word from an ancient human language lost to time, meaning "queen". Fitting for the Kings. This _Basilinna_ had rampaged throughout the south-eastern ADZ for many months now, displacing many human settlements in its search for lost troves of technology. Such was the depredation that even the Seraphim feared to track it; one of the refugees had told, shaking, of how an entire squadron of their best soldiers sent to kill it were thoroughly exterminated, and then as an afterthought a settlement under Seraphim protection razed, and everyone massacred.

This was why Cheyah was here.

Turning, she angled into a side-street. There looming before her was one of the city's landmarks. Once it had been a cathedral constructed at the height of the Golden Age, filled with worshippers on the high holy days and tourists during the secular week. Now it was a monument to what once was. One of its two towers had crumbled, rubble blocking off another street. The other bravely stood but it was only a matter of time before it too gave way.

She parked at the top of an old garage, rusted cars and trucks everywhere. "Ghost, can you hide its signature?" she asked.

"Certainly." The drone materialized and glowed; in a moment the Sparrow resembled one of the cars beside it. "It'll transform when we return."

"Good."

Passing a hand over her holstered cannons Cheyah took out one of ornate gold and examined it. Its rounds were loaded and its weight comforting. After inspecting the other, she strode to the edge of the garage and leapt outward.

To ordinary eyes it was suicide. Three stories off the ground would kill a man after shattering their legs. But Cheyah was no ordinary person.

Before she touched the ground there was a flash of light, and she stopped abruptly in the air. For a moment, a split second of an instant, she hovered, several feet off the ground. Then Cheyah landed gracefully, robes fluttering as they settled back down. Turning about, she saw no enemy. Would have been just great if a sniper decided to pick her off about then.

Then there it was. A faint rumble filled the air, like a distant turbine in one of those ancient wind tunnels firing up. Then a shadow passed over the ground, blocking out both the faint sun and foggy clouds. A great Ketch had appeared, soaring low over the ground, its bottommost part of the hull just barely clearing the buildings.

Shaped as a massive javelin, with a single gigantic engine asymmetrically to her port and four smaller ones triangularly placed for balance, the Fallen Ketch was a powerful foe to behold—no human ship had ever dared exchange weapons' fire with one, and lived. From where she stood Cheyah could see rows of Arc turrets along the vessel's length pointing outward, with a large cannon going to the tip of the spear. Several smaller shapes flew alongside it, ugly Skiffs and graceful Sloops in formation, zooming over buildings with a roar.

That there was where her target was, inside that Ketch.

But from here it was foot only, no Sparrow. The Fallen may sometimes forget an enemy was standing right below them—like now—but not even they would ignore a such tempting electronic treat beneath their insectoid nose. Here, disguised by junk long since picked over, it was safe; and so was she. Closer to where that Ketch was, no. But Cheyah was a Guardian. She could perform astonishing feats of gymnastics and stamina, and with her Ghost not even death could stop her. Where the Seraphim failed she would succeed.

Alone.

"Let's go," she said. Taking off at a run she began the final phase of her journey.

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

Racing through the city with noisy abandon, fearless of any foe, sped thirteen Pikes, excess Arc energy expelled through turbo-boosting. Five Vandals and twelve Dregs sat astride each of them, some riding double. Resting upon each Pike's rear within its own compartment was a Shank, its golden chassis blending with the vehicle. Once they reached their destination the robots would deploy to flank and cover the riders.

Yeldir, chief Vandal, led this scavenger band. For the past three weeks he and his crew stripped this city of whatever resources usable to the Fallen it held. Most of it was mechanical and technological in nature, but some junk material had also been taken for ether transfusion; the rest was to go to the _Basilinna_ as tribute. Now a Light-stealer had arrived, to claim the _Basilinna_ 's soul in vengeance. Yeldir was determined not to let that happen. Should he be the one to strike down the thief, and present its miniature Servitor to Prime, he would be well on his way to becoming a Captain—perhaps as Guard. Should he fail, the punishment was not worth thinking of.

Gesturing with his upper-right arm, Yeldir ordered three Vandals and two Dregs to veer off. The other Vandal and six Dregs went to left. Four continued with him as flankers. They would trap the thief in a circle and kill it with blue fire. Grasping shock pistol with lower-left arm, where it rested comfortably in the holster, Yeldir prepared for the coming fight.

The _Basilinna_ would have been alerted by now as to the thief's presence. To herald arrival like that with great Ketch, and grand armada, was—in Yeldir's humble and private opinion—very pretentious. Arrogant, almost. Either his _Basilinna_ was confident to display such power; or ignorant of the thief's true might. Yeldir had fought such beings before, once or twice, in the raiding of human villages. Fire-demons had been with them, yes, but those were expected. None of the bands with him had survived the thieves; he himself barely made it away from the last one with three arms shaven away, lucky to be alive.

His upper-left arm, mechanical and sharp, flexed as he adjusted grip on Pike controls.

This time he would be ready. With its dead body made ether he would regrow that arm and become Captain of Kings' Fallen—command a Skiff, or Sloop. This he was certain of.

But the thief was not dead. Not yet. It must die first.

If Yeldir failed, he vowed, then let his ether be released to the wind.

Yeldir would not fail.

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

"The Fallen are gaining ground," Ghost interrupted.

Cheyah paused and looked back. She stood opposite of a rise, blocking her vision, but not her hearing. Going up the rise would only increase the chances of her becoming a target. A growling rumble, like that of the Sparrow but more guttural, slowly filled the air, coming low from the ground instead of the air. By its timbre she gauged maybe upwards of ten Pikes, less if there were heavies mixed in. Unlikely, though, on that last. Fallen never deployed their strongest forces unless they were in total control of the area or wished to take a stronger place by deadly force.

"You're right," she answered. "I estimate they'll reach us before we reach the _Basilinna_."

"Shall I create a decoy?"

"No. We keep going. If they come, they shall regret it."

"They aren't Devils," Cheyah's Ghost cautioned her. "These are Kings and are smarter."

"We'll see, won't we?" her partner answered with a grin.

"I hate it when you do that. We _don't_ —"

"That backup plan is me. Come on, Ghost, you've been with me for the past four years. You ought to know my capabilities now." Cheyah started moving again, but it was no matter. The Fallen would reach her no matter how fast she ran.

"You aren't Pahanin!"

Cheyah rolled her eyes, unseen by Ghost, and pressed forward. There were times when wearing a helm was useful. "We've been through this before."

"They always end with you dying at least once after every time," came the pointed rejoinder. "There are no Guardians to help you."

"Who said I needed help?" With that the conversation was closed, the most they'd spoken in months. There was no more time for that now. Cheyah cocked the hammer of one cannon and pulled out the other. The Fallen were close.

For most of her working life, once she had been put through the rigors of the Crucible and deemed competent by Shaxx and the Vanguard, Cheyah had always worked alone. Whether it was scouring the vaults of east Asia, pawing through ancient libraries of the Japanese isles, or looting the John F. Kennedy space center of Old Florida, she never made contact with another Guardian except once or twice, and those had always been Hunters. Once or twice she'd see a fireteam on patrol, looking for refugees, but these she usually avoided.

It was something she couldn't help but do. Being around others made her uneasy. It was as if the mere presence of another like her, displaced through time, would dispel the illusion that this world was, in fact, _not_ a dream. Cheyah didn't want that dream gone—it made life easier, somehow, to pretend it was a fantasy. The fewer times she spent with another, beyond refugees telling her their horror stories or putting bullets through Fallen heads, the safer she felt.

But she could never, ever, shake the feeling that one day the reality would slam home. Until that day came, she was determined to put it off. It was also another reason why she seldom talked with Ghost. Talking dispelled dreams, made them less real, less vivid and intense. It was no wonder she lived up the Hunter stereotype—

—an Arc round whizzed close by—too close—and skipped into the ground, displacing dirt and rock.

Whirling Cheyah aimed both her cannons back and let loose— _crack, report!_

The Vandal whipped back into cover, a broken piece of wall of a two-storey shop, the Hunter's rounds missing by scant inches; stone flaked off by the passage.

A _whirring_ of sound made her look to her right—and she jumped, reality warping. A Pike sped right over where she stood, Arc blasts firing rapidly. Had she hesitated a split-second longer her body would be transmuted electricity. The vehicle banked and changed direction, clumsily, pebbles kicked up by gravitic field shifting beneath.

Cheyah landed, catlike, and let off two more rounds. Both thudded into a shield and dissipated—then she whirled again and fired another round. This time the Vandal which missed her screamed as a hole vacated its neck, and collapsed, ether and body fluids coagulating.

With a roar three more Pikes came over the rise, Shank drones detaching and flitting to the side to get a better angle.

The Hunter jumped again, reality warping to spit her six meters high into the air, spinning about as she went. _Crack! Report! Crack!_

Three riderless Pikes skidded and collided with the ground, exploding with spectacular displays of light, as three dead Dregs with brains evacuated fell off their seats.

All of this was done within four seconds.

The first Pike, which she had shot at but didn't land a hit, had sped forward in that time, slowing down only slightly to allow its brethren to pass by without being hit. But this time it was too close to jump over. So she jumped and swung to the side. With a scream the Dreg flew and hit the ground at high speed, neck broken by the force of her kick, and Cheyah now was the proud owner of a Pike.

Banking hard to the left and turning about in a full circle, to face the rise over which the trio came from, she let loose with a flurry of Arc rounds and wasted the Shanks with wild abandon.

" _Careful, it'll overheat!_ " her Ghost screamed from where she hid inside.

"That's the idea," Cheyah retorted. Two more Pikes—one with two Dregs—flew over the rise straight at her, shields catching and transmuting the electric rounds with ease. She watched as they came—then dove off, gun leaving her holster and firing. With an explosion to rival the others downed, its transductor-coils overloaded and the Pike blew to kingdom-come, and shrapnel took out the oncoming Fallen. Their Pikes too similarly exploded. A few more rounds blew up the Shanks, along with a third she had overlooked from before, hiding. Now it was not hiding.

Rolling she came up and observed her work. One Vandal, seven Dregs and their Pikes, plus Shanks. Not bad, for being caught by surprise.

" _I don't suppose you could have spared one?_ "

"No time. But more will come. There should be fo—"

Seven more Pikes encircled her, one pair of arms each holding shock pistols aimed right at Cheyah. Some Pikes held passengers in addition to riders, and these held unwieldy and quite deadly shrapnel launchers. Their Shanks detached and floated upwards, cannons aimed at her. With muted growls the floating vehicles came to rest. The Fallen did not lower their weapons.

" _Didn't you say you had a backup plan?_ "

Cheyah wasn't so sure about that one now, and Ghost had said it with no little but unintentional irony. She was surrounded, far from where she could call help (not even the Seraphim could help her), and outgunned and outnumbered.

One the Vandals, a nasty-looking piece of work with an upper metal arm, growled at her and gestured with its pistol. Translation: " _Drop your weapons. Surrender. Or die_."

 _Very well, then. Let's see what happens next_. Cheyah dropped her weapons and let herself be bound under the watchful gaze of Shanks. The Fallen made quite an aggressive show of patting her down completely, and none too gentle about it or caring for modesty, looking for Ghost but the robot kept herself hidden quite snugly away.

The Fallen were quite crafty, Kings even more so.

But sometimes they were quite stupid as well.

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

They were taking no chances.

The Fallen had sandwiched her between two Dregs, and that was mightily uncomfortable on that Pike. The Shank's docked chassis served as a makeshift seat for the second Dreg, for it to watch her—and keep its pistol pointed at her head. Cheyah didn't know if its finger was on the trigger or not, and she wasn't too keen on finding out either. The rest of the Fallen had spread out, keeping her Pike within clear view; in fact the only Pike directly in front was the leader, the metal-arm Vandal. Both her cannons were taken away, _Silence_ too, and given to other Dregs for safekeeping, and neither of those were her present companions. Taking no chances.

Fully bound as she was, there was no possibility of slipping off or getting herself loose, not that she planned to. Even if she could, she wouldn't. Sometimes the fastest way to your enemy is to walk right on in. Saved her time sneaking into that Ketch, and many unneeded firefights. Cheyah had heard stories of legendary Guardians capable of gunning down an entire Cabal century with only a hand cannon; lesser Guardians had brought down several Skiffs in one sitting. There was even a rumor that a Ketch had exploded—from the _inside!_ , no less—on Mars, and it wasn't from Cabal ordnance either.

Cheyah wasn't that kind of Guardian. Despite wanting the world to be just a dream, she retained enough presence of mind not to act cocky about it. Life was short enough as a Guardian, and with each revive one lived on borrowed time. She was cautious. But not cautious enough to avoid the Fallen.

Wasn't as if she could help it. They owned the place here. Neither did she risk talking to Ghost. They'd pick up on that right quick, and submit her to more searching until they found what they were looking for.

Oh the conundrums a rouge like her faced.

Her stomach plummeted—the Pikes screamed off a large hill and Cheyah felt every jolt in her bones, and she grunted. The Dreg behind hissed and nudged her head as a warning. Her companions took little notice of the sudden drop except to adjust their grip, and in one's case, its gun. They left the main thoroughfare and went down a slightly smaller but building-less street, Pike frames scraping the ground slightly. Now they sped through a large field, yellowed grass moving slightly in a weak breeze. The buildings were now left far behind; they had entered what was the countryside.

The sun was starting to become stronger; breaking through the thin clouds its strengthening gaze cast the place in a whole new light. ( _What an irony_ , she thought idly.) The Pikes' golden colors were now clearly defined, the Dregs' similarly-hued armor glinting, and all of that bright color starting to give Cheyah a headache. She tried closing her eyes but the light was too intense, stabbing through her eyelids with ease. She then tried leaning forward, ignoring that it was a Dreg's back she was about to rest on, only to be whacked hard. "Still!" the rearmost Dreg growled, gun nozzle pressing again to her head.

How long was this going to take?

A very long time.

The sun had gone down when they arrived to their destination, many, many kilometers from where she touched down. According to the sun's glaring on her face while they rode, they had been travelling due west. From the great shadows cast about the ground, and tall hulks thrusting upward into a now starry sky, they were now in the Appalachian mountains. Probably in Old West Virginia if she wasn't mistaken. Ghost could probably confirm it.

The Pikes began to slow. Their incessant rumbling, which had begun to wear on her ears, began to die away as their speed lessened.

"Off."

Cheyah clumsily got off, muscles protesting, only just managing to avoid falling down. Sitting awkwardly on a two-seater Pike for hours was not a good way to improve blood circulation. Then a foot pushed her along.

"Ow!"

"Quiet," the same Dreg snarled, hitting her again.

Cheyah wished she could glare at it but her helm had been taken, robes also stripped away, likely for trophies. All she had was her sapphire-wire plated armor, none of which they bothered to take. Perhaps they wanted to deliver her intact to the _Basilinna_. Best not to provoke their ire any longer. Her time to act would come. So swallowing her pride, and ignoring the bruise forming upon her pale cheek, Cheyah submitted to being led forward.

As she predicted hours before they had taken her to where the _Basilinna_ 's Ketch landed. There it was, like an overgrown bird, upon a large frame designed to support cargo spacecraft from the late Golden Age, presiding like a king. Its massive engine was powered down, Dregs swarming about for damage or worn down components, Shanks drifting alongside. Others roamed the long central spearhead, tending to the cannon, its Arc turrets, or fiddling with armor. On smaller landing pads surrounding it sat Skiffs and Sloops, some in various states of disrepair and others hooked up for fueling; some were leaving or returning.

As Cheyah was led through the encampment—one that neared the size of the legendary Fallen siege camps of the Gap—other Kings' Fallen emerged to see her. Captains standing tall in their ancient capes, lower hands resting upon shock blades. Vandals leering at her demise, a Guardian led captive. Dregs openly whooping for joy in that barbaric tongue of theirs. Servitors hovered solemnly beside, eyes unblinking, and Shanks stood sentinel.

When they neared the entrance to the Ketch, a sort of command deck extending out from the lower half of the ship, several Vandals came to relieve the crew which captured her. Cheyah knew from their higher-quality armor and ornate clothing that these were Kell's Guards, high ranking Fallen charged with protecting Fallen leadership. If there was any more proof needed that she was on the right track it was the presence of these. The Dregs fell back, fading into the camp, their job done, Vandals too. Only the leader remained, and after a short conversation with a Kell's Guard, clearly was going to stay.

She could only guess at why it did. Ether supplement? Commendation? Promotion?

Further thoughts were cut off with a surprisingly gentle push to her back. The Kell's Guard fell into formation about her, wire rifles shouldered with precise discipline, and started marching. Literally, marched. Like a parody of ancient human militaries of old. Of course, Kings' were known to be more sophisticated than the Devils. They went inside the Ketch, passing by digilant crews working, and disappeared inside.

She was now in the hands of the _Basilinna_.

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

 _Basilinna_ Nythris the Golden lounged upon her throne in the heart of the Ketch, toying with an ancient artefact of the Eliksni. Something pre-Whirlwind, one of their heritage. Several such items cluttered her chamber, placed so that they could be appreciated without exerting much effort to look at. Banners and pennants of old houses, both Greater and Lesser, hung from the ceiling, their symbols faded but legible, with an effigy of the Great Machine placed prominently upon its own little shrine.

A perfect white sphere, carved from a crystalline-like substance found nowhere on this world.

Also taking pride of place was a containment unit along one wall filled with ancient human media, crumbly books and faded plastic boxes, and one of those viewscreens of theirs she entertained herself with. Nythris could turn on the viewscreen, relax while she waited. She hadn't had much time to do so. The pesky fire-demons kept her on the move until recently. The slaughter of their strength was a successful message.

But as high priestess of this scion of Kings' House her times of rest were few and far between. With the two Barons occupied commanding the ship, it was her task to see to the Servitor. Both to keep ether production up and the machine itself from failing. While the lesser creatures worshiped their Servitors, only she and other higher ups understood that the Servitors were not gods. True, they held them in reverence, but only as icons of what once was.

In a few moments she would need to get up and inquire if repairs were complete so they could be on the move. A nasty brush with an eastern storm whose strength even now bled out had necessitated this landing. The primary components of the engines needed to be checked on and minor repairs made to armor before they lifted off. Who knew where the Kell would send her next—Venus, where ancient machines of blasphemous might clashed with Winter? Mars, where a vast army strode upon a land of blood? Or beyond the Reef itself, to communicate with mysterious Time? As her Kell ordered, so she would obey.

Running her fingers over the carving, a small stone object of some dead Kell, Nythris remembered her primary mission: retrieve intelligence on the City That Docks. Hard to do.

The Houses had failed in their test to reclaim their mediator years before. She remembered it as if it had happened yesterday; had sent the call herself to the Wolves. A shame they failed to arrive. But perhaps it was upon her House. The gods had judged them unworthy. So they must fight again, with patience, with planning. They would bleed those dead warriors who killed their children, murdered their Servitors and Barons, bleed them dry. One at a time.

Devils telemetry indicated the City That Docks had a limited number of these warriors. No doubt still reeling from the Gap. _Bah_. The Twilight Gap they called it. Eliksni called it the Defeat, the Second Battle. But they were slowly gaining. If only they could reclaim Winter's focus from Venus, then the City That Docks would fall. Devils Prime would rally its House to them even without the Kell. Victory would be assured.

A buzzer sounded, comms communication coming through. Straightening up, Nythris touched the blinking light upon her seat. "What is it, captain?" Her voice was sinuous for an Eliksni.

"Basilinna _,_ " the commander of her personal detachment of Kell's Guard answered. " _Yeldir has reported in with a captured Light-stealer. Though a third of his crew and equipment was lost, he has incapacitated the warrior._ "

Nythris had no eyebrows but the expression she wore resembled something a suspicious human might wear. A dead warrior, defeated that easily? Impossible. "What is the captive?"

" _Female, small human, smaller than Dreg. Armed with twin gold-and-silver pistols, and wire rifle facsimile. No Ghost visible after four searches. Ship unaccounted for_."

Oh? Interesting…

"Take her to the interrogation chamber immediately. Alert the Barons—do not let your guard down. Strip her completely, understood?"

" _Yes,_ Basilinna _. Galdos out_."

The communication-line ended and the ether-rich air silent again. Stretching Nythris slowly stood, exercising out all tired bones and limbs. It was not often she had the pleasure of "entertaining" a Light-stealer personally, and in such perfect condition too. Usually they were more than half-dead by the time she met them, having suffered brutally at the hands of their captors. This was because they struggled mightily during capture, and before that had charged into ambush. To prevent the possibility of being resurrected by their Ghosts she had them "etherized" immediately. _Hmmm… interesting bastardization_ , she thought idly.

Then she stood, all eight feet of her. Taking her horned helmet from off its pedestal, she secured it into place, ether-hoses latching on, instruments lighting up. It fit comfortably about her head. This was less for breathing and more for intimidation unless she strode out into the alien air of the human world. The poor human now in her hands would be wearing a mask, designed to filter out ether so she could survive, her only article of "clothing". It of course would not disguise or obscure her voice—her voice most especially.

To say that Nythris was a sadist would be using human terms. The Fallen did not view torture in the same manner as did humans, their morals slightly different. Anything not Eliksni was inferior unless it somehow impressed them enough. But even among the Fallen Nythris was… an exception, to the norm. And humans were most especially sensitive creatures.

Now no longer able to put duty off, Nythris marched out of her chambers and down the twisty, winding tunnels of her Ketch, Dregs and Vandals moving out of her way. This was going to be an interesting conversation.

Lounged wasn't perhaps the best word to use. Reclined and at ease was better; with the Pilot Servitor occupied in processing intel from distant Ketches far away, and the two Barons upon this ship down in the camp below ordering dregs about,

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

Cheyah breathed through the harsh filters of her mask.

Her Vandal escort had taken her to this room somewhere aboard the Ketch and completely stripped off her armor. Ghost would flee from it once it was left unattended. Then they chained her up with energy-cuffs that prickled at her wrists and ankles and left her to hang from the wall without so much as a backward glance. Then they departed—leaving her alone.

Of course she knew she wasn't fully alone, not really. For all of Kings' arrogance there'd be two guards outside the only way in and out of this room, electro-staves at the ready.

Then there was also the Servitor in the same room with her, set upon a special contraption off to her right that allowed it to move like a ball bearing. Were Servitors used as computers? she wondered as she stared into its single purple eye. The machine had been rolling around as they entered, either bored in a parody of restlessness or idle amusement. It halted as she was bound up, observing with keen unblinking eye, making those strange noises Guardians were unable to decipher. Now it just gazed at her.

Was it some kind of interrogator? To submit the captive to an endless staring that would eventually drive them over the edge? Or was she being too literal? It was a machine, and able to be ignored—how could she feel naked (pun _not_ intended) beneath the eye of a robot? Was it different for the Fallen?

She wished whatever they planned on doing would come to pass quickly. Loneliness was not a problem; endless waiting was soon to be a problem, especially when she expected some horrible thing to happen. A classic tactic on the part of wardens toward their prisoners. So to take her mind off of the expected arrival of whatever they sent, Cheyah started to examine her bonds.

The energy-cuffs prickled even more as she struggled to contort her body, to look up. From the way her arms were bound up, it was a wonder they hadn't detached from her body already. No, no chance of slipping out of these. For that she'd need Ghost. Her ankles were bound in the same way, energy coursing along her skin. After nearly cricking her neck Cheyah determined that the frame too was wildly spaced apart from her to use it as leverage. They did a good job of it all right.

She sighed, a gust of air leaving her, slumping down as far her bonds would let her. "I don't suppose you'd know when they get here, do you?" she asked the Servitor. "I'm bored."

The Servitor click-growled in response, a deeper robotic-bass version of the Fallen's tongue. Was it admonishing her to stay quiet, or telling her to be patient?

She unconsciously rolled her eyes at that last thought. "You are useless," she said instead. It was a futile gesture. The Servitor could care less of her opinion, if it cared at all.

"Not as useless as your broken body would be," a smooth, cultured voice—was that _British_ she was hearing?!—answered her. "If, that is, you refuse to give us what we want."

The door had opened during her talking, and three large Fallen had entered the room. The chamber's dimensions easily made it possible to accommodate them, its curving, bulbous ceiling higher than their heads. Two were cloaked in Kings' finery—Barons. Their shock-swords, deactivated, rested in their sheaths. The other just wore silver armor with no cloak.

The _Basilinna_.

"What, is our presence too irritating?" the _Basilinna_ asked, proving both that she was female and the source of the British voice. "Speak up, thief."

At last Cheyah found her tongue. "Just how many BBC shows did you watch? Doctor Who, Sherlock?"

Instantly she felt pain—terrible pain. Cheyah arched her back as electricity flowed through, mouth open wide in a silent scream. Then the agony left. As she slumped forward she heard one of the Barons chuckling.

"Do not presume to be presumptuous with me, thief," the _Basilinna_ admonished. "Or else Sentinel Orbiks-3 will administer higher voltage. Now I will ask again. Why are you silent?"

"I was… _curious_ … about your excellent English," Cheyah ground out, shaking.

The _Basilinna_ seemed pleased. "Not often a human thinks to ask about it. Yes, I do enjoy several of your old shows from before your fall. They reveal quite a bit of your nature—everything from your excellence to your depravity. Your whole culture is on display in these programmes. Rather primitive."

"Thank you for your compliments."

The _Basilinna_ seemed not to notice the sarcasm. "Let us cut to the chase. You cooperate and give me what I want, and you will suffer little if any pain and indignity. If not, we'll see how far you can go before you become ether."

Cheyah resisted the urge to roll her eyes. " _Fine_. What is it?" And where is Ghost?

"First—let us start with your City. Tell me about its current, hmm, let us say… state…"

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

Ghost flitted about the interior of the Kings Ketch, darting from shadow to shadow. Every time a Shank turned in her direction she ducked down and transmatted inside whatever object that was nearest. If a Servitor turned its sleepless eye toward her that was when things became critical—she powered off, for a few seconds, before a self-spark awoke her again. The Fallen were otherwise oblivious.

If only Cheyah's plans didn't rely on herself so often, or meant getting into risky situations like this. It would make Ghost feel better if Cheyah listened to reason for once. But sadly her Guardian still thought she was in a transient, lucid dream, capable of doing amazing feats without undue misfortune; not even pain or death convinced her it was anything but a waking dream. If only so many of the Risen had common sense left then fewer Ghosts would have aneurysms—wait a minute…

Shaking her jointed shell in disbelief, Ghost phased through the wall—

—and phased back through it again.

It was a long while before she mustered up the courage to peek in there again.

Three Dregs, off-duty, were sorting through junk and scrap in one of the Ketch's many holds. But what caught Ghost's eye was that Cheyah's armor was among the debris. Now if only she'd get close enough to transmat it away from them…

Too late!

A Dreg saw the silver glinting in the mass of grey and brown. It nabbed the torso-portion and displayed it, holding it out like a shirt, chittering at its fellows. One was unimpressed, returning back to work, and the other had only half a mind to keep going on.

 _Now how am I to get it back?_

While Ghost deliberated a hatch at the far end of the cavernous chamber opened, and something came in snarling. Immediately the Dregs dropped all slacking and hurriedly resumed their tasks, the one holding the armor shoving it beneath some innocuous junk. They kept up this pretence, hoping the intruder would go away, but in vain—instead it seemed to notice them and walked on over.

It was that curious Vandal which had captured Cheyah, the one with a metal arm. Ghost watched as it pulled one Dreg aside and growled at it. The other responded, and apparently the answer was not to the Vandal's liking, for it began to shake the Dreg viciously, its clicks and chittering growing louder. Another Dreg, the one which grabbed Cheyah's armor, stepped up and inquired why the Vandal was interrupting their work. At least, that's what she assumed it said. The Cryptarchs still a long ways to go with a Fallen dictionary and thesaurus; if only they had someone friendly to crosscheck their work.

With a snort the Vandal backhanded the Dreg speaking to it, pushed the first one aside, and began rummaging through the junk. Ghost then understood it was looking for Cheyah's armor. Why, though, was beyond her. It didn't cross her mind that it was looking for her.

Eventually the Vandal gave up, but still didn't relinquish hold of its prize. It was then Ghost saw the tattered remnants of Cheyah's Warlock-equse robes and helm in the lower arms. Aha! the spark of a plan began to form inside…

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

Yeldir turned away from the three in disgust. Claiming the armor when it was property of the _Basilinna_. How it ended up in the hold was unknown to him, and only the Great Machine knew why. He paid no mind as the other Fallen shouted abuse at him. They'd be punished later when he reported to her.

Stepping into the twisting tunnel-like corridors that made up the Ketch's interior he inspected the stolen property for damage. Satisfied nothing serious had occurred— _promotion for sure!_ —Yeldir set off for the interrogation chambers. He'd find the little Servitor later; it wouldn't be far anyway.

He heard the screaming before he entered the level proper. The Kell's Guard outside the chamber door betrayed no discomfort but Yeldir could still read their eyes beneath the masks.

"Permission to enter?" he asked.

Behind him a tiny light transmatted into the wall, unseen by either Guard.

The Guard nodded as another bout of screams tore through the air. The hatch opened and Yeldir entered.

Inside one of the two Barons took notice of him, or rather what he held before him. Jerking its head the noble indicated it was to be set next to the Servitor. Yeldir complied. The _Basilinna_ spoke again in that human tongue called English, the rudiments Yeldir had only barely grasped. From her tone she was getting impatient and annoyed. The human female showed no sign of injury on that perfectly white skin of hers, but the eyes betrayed the extent of her pain.

The human answered again, feebly.

* * *

Behind the Vandal and the Barons, the small light entered the room, manifesting into Ghost. She knew that the Servitor and Cheyah's target were focusing all attention on her, and not the robot. From the way Cheyah looked, however, she was near the breaking point. Ghost could only thank the Traveler that neither of them had spent any time in the Tower since resurrection. Still, four-year-old information was still potent, but neither knew anything of importance, just what they were ordered to do.

* * *

Cheyah hung limply as the electricity died away. She had heard of Guardians being subjected to worse but this was nothing she could have imagined.

"I will ask you again, and no more," the _Basilinna_ said, leaning in close to her, harsh ether exhaled. "The City's strength. How many since the Gap?" Cheyah mumbled—then cried out as her jaw was grabbed. "What was that? I couldn't hear you."

"I—I _told_ you…" Cheyah breathed. "I don't know. I've never gone back since resurr—" Another scream.

"I will assume you are lying," came the cold retort. "But do go on. It has been a while since I last entertained one of your kind, thief."

The Guardian tried to glare but the effect was wasted as the _Basilinna_ turned her back.

Wait a minute!

Yes—yes, it was _Ghost_! The little light had somehow survived getting dismantled—later she found out that once the Guard had taken over, Ghost had transmatted into one of their weapons—and made it without so much as a scratch or a dent on that white shell.

The little robot edged closer to the armor, understanding that Servitors, like the one in its immobile chassis, were very sensitive to strange signals. As long as she was careful, her Guardian would be free and out of here in no time—and mission success. So far none of the Fallen had seen the nearly visible fluctuation that marked a cloaking field. The Vandal was eyeing Cheyah while the _Basilinna_ talked to her Barons, both of which listened intently. The Servitor had not once turned around.

At last.

The _Basilinna_ had turned back to Cheyah. "Now then. We'll resume this in the morning, give you time to… reconsider… before another session. Is that clear?"

"Yes… yes. Very clear," the Guardian answered.

"Good. Good night."

"Wait!"

Every Fallen in the room turned toward her. "Yes?" the _Basilinna_ asked, conveying the impression of an eyebrow raised.

Cheyah grinned, weakly. "There is… is something you should know."

The _Basilinna_ frowned beneath the mask. "What?"

Cheyah wouldn't let pain slur her words for this one. So speaking carefully, she replied: "For one, I am ambidextrous, neither left- nor right-handed." As the Fallen just stared at her in confusion, she then added. "And I am on the Brute Squad."

Her cuffs disappeared and she dropped to the ground.

Comprehension dawning, the Fallen roared and drew their weapons—a Baron fell, body disintegrating into Solar light from the top down. The Vandal screeched and retreated through a now-open hatch; Guards raced in, Arc-energy crackling. The Servitor, trapped in its prison, exploded in a burst of heat and energy.

Crowned with Radiance, fully healed of all injuries, wielding twin hand cannons of fire and fully armored, Cheyah sent multiple shots through the air, cleaving Fallen apart like so many clay birds. Bodies and machinery perished as she unleashed the full fury of the Light.

The _Basilinna_ had escaped and raced down the hall, lone Baron following, Vandal in front of her still screeching.

Dispatching the last of her enemies in a now igniting inferno Cheyah followed.

Hatches opened and Dregs and Shanks spilled out, guns blazing as the alarm raced through the Ketch. Several dissipated into Light and ether before they even left their hatchway as their target floated after her tormentors, wings of fire transforming a petite woman into a Solar entity of vengeance. Other hatches slammed closed, intending to block her progress—a few blasts of energy from her palms melted these deterrents as if cheese.

Outside the encampment was in an uproar. Many Fallen had taken to the sky, expecting an assault from the outside—Seraphim was on their mind. Most milled around in confusion, wondering how an enemy had slipped past their outer defenses to warrant sounding off the Ketch's alarms. As the _Basilinna_ and her Baron burst out of the command deck, shouting, a section of the hull grew fiery red in an instant, then exploded outward.

At last understanding the full might of the Kings was unleashed. Heedless of the damage caused to their ship, turret emplacements fired massive Arc-blasts toward the disruption, wire and shock rifles sounding off like so many firecrackers.

And still Cheyah went on.

She felt utterly revitalized, the raw fury of the sun coursing through her veins as if she were literally made of fire—a true demon that these Fallen feared, given bodily form. Giving her new wings a sweep downward, like a vast bird of prey, she leapt off the hole and soared down to the ground, after the _Basilinna_. Another shot beheaded the Baron; a second eradicated four Dregs and a Vandal trying to activate a Spider Tank; a third ensured the robot never walked again.

" _Get the Skiffs in the air!_ " the _Basilinna_ shrieked, turning back to fire off a shot before redoubling speed.

The Skiffs and Sloops already flying turned about, their cannons locking on the Guardian. She merely ducked and weaved, cutting a burning path through the night sky as she made her way steadily toward the fleeing _Basilinna_. Arc blasts impacted the side of the Ketch, enough in intensity that the massive frame it sat upon shuddered. When a chance shot severed one of the supports the entire thing gave way, and the ship flew no more.

In fact the entire valley was no more.

Something inside the ship must have been affected, for when the Ketch crashed to the ground, its long spearhead shattering into so many little pieces, a gigantic explosion suddenly filled the air, throwing up hundreds of screaming Fallen and burnt machinery. The very mountains shuddered with the force thereof.

Riding upon the vanguard of the inferno was Cheyah, eyes burning.

The _Basilinna_ had somehow gotten aboard a Sloop, for she was fleeing as fast as she could in the direction of the ruined city, the vessel's wings dipping as it struggled to gain altitude. Two Skiffs covered while the remainder ships tried to slow down the Guardian. Muted explosions told of their fate.

Nythris turned to look back at her ruined encampment. What was left was a burning, radioactive crater that would stay that way for months. Not so much as an outline of her Ketch remained. She growled—it had taken months to build up her forces, to work her way through the Kings' hierarchy, and her prisoner had destroyed it all in an instant. Heads will be rolling if she survived. It didn't cross her mind that the Vandal who brought the captive in was nowhere to be found.

" _Oh_ Basilinna!" a voice cried on the wind. Speeding after her with unnatural speed was that damned Guardian. " _There is a well known saying that you should never fight a land war on Mars. A lesser known saying is to never go against a Guardian when their life is on the line!_ "

Ignoring her, Nythris turned to the Captain piloting the ship, all four of his eyes bugged in fear. "Get this thing moving faster!" she screamed at him.

" _And another thing!_ "

Nythris heard an odd sound. It sounded like something was going faster than she was.

" _Fallen of unusual size means they ought not to exist!_ "

A mind-numbing explosion, and Nythris felt herself light as a feather—before she slammed hard on the ground. Groaning she lifted herself up, not immediately registering a handless arm. Another explosion in the background meant her Sloop had crashed.

More importantly, however, was that a burning, Radiant creature was striding toward her. Behind her hovered a dark shape—a jumpship she vaguely recognized. _How did it appear so fast?_

 _Basilinna_ Nythris the Golden roared defiantly at Cheyah, who only smiled knowingly.

Pointing her gun at the Fallen's head, Cheyah said: "Do you hear that?" The explosions continued. "That is the sound of ultimate suffering. My heart made that sound when I first heard of your ravages. You will make it now."

Nythris' answer was to whip out a shock pistol and press the trigger.

Cheyah was faster.

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

Yeldir stumbled along, lame in one foot, forced to use his lower limbs and a stolen electro-stave to support himself. His metal arm was rendered useless because of the Solar Radiance the Guardian had used—twisted by heat, blackened by smoke.

Swearing silently in pain, he made a vow to hunt down that Guardian and make her pay. Those unnatural powers were never hers. This he would accomplish.

A slightly lesser roar caught his ear. Turning back he beheld a thick cloud of smoke rising up in the predawn sky, the landing site of a downed Ketch. And a small grey shape flying through the sky to lands unknown.

He roared, shaking his hunk of metal at the sky. He would have vengeance!

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

"It worked, didn't it?"

"Yes, but that stunt you pulled is the last straw. Fine, I understand the exotic interpretive dance that one time but nude torture is the last straw! Is that clear?"

"Okay, okay, Ghost, I understand."

"Do you promise?" Ghost asked slyly.

Cheyah grinned. "No. Circumstance permitting."

The drone sighed again. "Fine."

"Hey, cheer up—we scored a major victory against the Kings. Even I wasn't expecting to take out a Ketch."

"I still don't like it, but oh well. Zavala will be pleased. However… while you were off entertaining—"

Cheyah waved a hand. "Zip it."

"—this is important!"

"I wasn't entertaining, got that?"

Undeterred, Ghost said: "We found the coordinates to the Kings' main base." When Cheyah didn't reply, Ghost added, "Does this mean I win?"

"No, it means Zavala will be less angry with us. Raise him on the comms, best he hears it from us than from some overexcited Hunter."

"I could have sworn that was you."

"Zip it."

 _The Overshadow_ disappeared into the dawn of the new morning.

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

A/N: _I would love to hear your thoughts and critiques about this—anything helps in the long run._

 _This story is perhaps unique in the_ Destiny _archive. When I first conceptualized it, this story was to be about the exploits of our Guardian here, either alone or with a fireteam, doing basically the OC-version of the in-game Strikes, and never intersecting with the game-Strikes or the storyline except obliquely. Since then my mind decided to break that mold, and now there'll be other Guardian(s) starring here, of all classes and hopefully species._

 _As I'm following_ Destinypedia _'s listing of the Strikes (with some rearranging), this one is kin to_ The Devils' Lair _: a Fallen-themed strike. This story will follow based on the events in-game but will not actually intersect them and neither will we see much of the "player's Guardian"; don't want the spotlight stolen by a "super-Guardian", will we? In addition, we'll see the Raids, exactly as they appear in-game after the Strikes, and following by DLC. They'll be somewhat different than the chapter/Strike format I'll be following._

 _So, reviews, critiques, maybe? Anything that struck your fancy, perhaps even want to insert an OC of your own (don't go overboard with it), anything really. I like reviews that give me something to mull over—but I'm not adverse to smaller reviews: whatever floats your goat. :)_

* * *

The Guardian here was loosely inspired by Eve from the game _Angel Stone_ 's cinematic trailer. Beta-read by _dogmeathasdied._


	2. Pits of Wrath

~X~

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

 ** _Pits of Wrath_**

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

" _What's all the sudden curiosity in the Hive? I'll tell you why. They are a sleeping giant, doing Traveler knows what up on Luna in our absence. They've been quiet—too quiet. But that is about to change. The discovery of seeders in the EDZ means they are prepping for invasion, likely the offensive we've all hoped they'd not launch. So let us get in there first. Take out whatever they're building. And come home. Good luck, Guardians. You'll need it._ "  
—Commander Zavala

* * *

Twin _Arcadia_ -class jumpships flew together, side-by-side, angling their orbital descent toward Luna's surface. Emblazoned on their sides was New Monarchy's sigil, the City's most staunchest defender outside the Guardians, and the Fire Victorious' emblem. Below the ships stretched small mountains, some dating back to the Golden Age, others from after the Collapse. Deeper craters divided them, opening far down below, anomalous light clearly visible even from Earth from within. There was something deeply wrong with this satellite, something which sickened it, one which risked spreading to Earth nearly three hundred eighty-four thousand kilometers away.

Since the Disaster the moon had lain abandoned to humankind, inhabited by strange creatures; by Vanguard decree no one, civilian or Guardian, was to go there. Few did, and quickly left as soon as they finished what business they had. Most said it was haunted; others thought it was some sort of elaborate prison. Nothing could be further—yet nearer—to the truth. Something was stirring, could be felt by Warlocks in their deepest meditations on the Traveler. Hunter reports spread fear throughout the Tower, and the Titans were itching to fight.

Today was their chance.

"This is SQ-1 to Tower-Actual, we're entering cislunar space, over."

" _Tower to SQ-1, this is Zavala. Angle your ships to the abandoned Moonbase near the Ocean of Storms; there is a landing pad there, clear of debris. Watch for Hive bandits_."

"Acknowledged, Tower," Tristan affirmed. "SQ-1 out."

" _Good luck. Tower out._ "

The transmission was cut. Soon it would be radio silence from here on out. The Vanguard didn't know yet how much the Hive possessed in the way of intercepting radio signals, but they weren't willing to take that chance. From here on out, the Guardians were on their own.

"SQ-1 to 2, Theran, buddy, how's it going?" Tristan asked, looking over to where his twin flew alongside. His fair, Celtic face was unnaturally pale against the darkness of his cabin, green eyes contrasting marvelously, like emeralds in alabaster. He looked like a corpse; a lively one at that. His cheerful disposition however made up for it.

" _As swell as it'll ever be. I'm tired of sublight speeds and quite frankly this junk ship too._ " Over the radio Theran was his usual gruff self; the long journey hadn't changed a thing about that. Tristan grinned.

"Well," he answered, putting some humor into it, "if you hadn't trashed your NLS we wouldn't _be_ moving at sublight speeds."

" _Don't rub it in_." His brother sounded almost like an angry bear. " _It wasn't my fault_ _—the damn thing overheated on its own_."

"And we had to call in another fireteam to help transmat your ship out of Siberia before Fallen could reclaim it. Next time, don't go flying that thing when Holliday hasn't looked at it in a week." Tristan grinned again. "I love you and all, but that was a damn-fool thing."

" _Four boogeys, twenty-two degrees, port-dorsal_."

Tristan dropped the playful attitude. "Energy emission type?"

" _Unconfirmed_ _—disguised Arc-energy with unknown radiation-type. Standby_."

The Arcadias changed direction and began moving downward, closer to the jagged lunar mountains. In the absence of working cloaks the latent energy rising from the ground would mask their ships' own. Tristan checked his radar—the boogeys far to his screen's left (just barely visible, too) seemed not to have noticed them, moving away and hadn't even altered direction.

Still this could be a trap.

"August, what do you think?" he asked. The Ghost materialized, its Pursuer's Shell darker in the cabin semidarkness. "Did you sense anything there?"

"No, nothing on my Light, Master Ashkevron," Augustine replied. "I've prepared weapons."

"Thanks. Theran, bud, got guns out?"

" _Yeah_!" Theran said by way of affirmation. " _Space dust is going to be a pain though. Better safe than sorry,_ " he added. Then his voice changed. " _Break away_!"

Tristan immediately wrenched his craft hard to starboard—his brother went port. Thrusters firing the Arcadias separated; and three missiles zoomed through the gap left by them. With their target vectors broken they veered off and disappeared, one impacting the lunar surface in an explosion of dust, another slamming into a mountain.

" _Fallen bandits_ _—Privateers_!"

"Don't need to tell me twice—flares, August," Tristan gritted out as he pulled his ship into a complicated sort of spin, the thin post-Golden Age atmosphere marking his passage. The third missile locked on disengaged and disappeared.

Fallen Privateers were the equivalent of Guardian jumpships—two-man, delta-winged like Phaetons, equipped with four powerful Solar engines propelling it, and armed to the teeth in every sort of ballistics and energy weaponry the Fallen had access to. Privateers were feared by Guardians not so much for their simple outclassing jumpships but for the fact they attacked in squads of four and were transatmospheric, like Ketches.

It'd be just their day if there was a _Ketch_ behind these bandits.

Right now two Privateers were following Tristan, their wide wings casting shadows down below. Their brothers pursued Theran elsewhere, and he was out of radio-range. One released another pair of tracking missiles at Tristan, blue energy trail marking their flight. They sped forward, intent on destroying the Arcadia—right before four more flares popped out and confused them, causing premature detonations. The Vandal pilot growled and released another pair. The munitions bay opened and they dropped, igniting a moment later to fly.

Accompanying them were the other Privateer's machine-cannon Arc blasts, tearing up rock and dust with enthusiasm, as if they too wanted the Guardian's demise.

Tristan glanced at a screen, noticed the blasts flying all around him in the process, swore in a language his mother were she alive would smack him right round the head for, and twisted his craft violently, nearly sending her crashing; and whipped about a mountain to port.

A double explosion blew behind him—the missiles first, and one of the nearest Privateers, its Vandals too committed to change course. One blip died on the radar.

Grinning again, Tristan eased off the afterburners. "Let's see here, aha, scatterbomb. Opening bay-doors, August."

"Confirmed."

The bomb dropped away.

 _BOOM!_

He glanced at his screen again. The other blip was still there. "Aww, this is just great—SQ-2, this is SQ-1 with a bandit behind, closing in fast!" He glanced at his fuel gauge. _Great_. "If you're there, come in!"

Pressing more buttons he discharged more flares and more missiles avoided him, though some were very near hits. Arc blasts were skimming by very close now; every now and then one actually shot over or beneath his cockpit, meaning they were very, very close to hitting the engines, great honking things that they were, easy targets.

"August, prepare for emergency transmat!" he yelled. "Sparrow, guns, me, everything!"

"Yes, sir."

Wrenching his craft vertical, Tristan dove between two almost tight wedges of rock heralding a canyon, twisting about in a barrel roll to ease out his sudden turn. The surrounding lunar landscape seemed to mock him, with its quiet greyness, inviting him to give in. Here was where tens of thousands of Guardians had died, fighting a deadly war against the Hive roughly a year ago before Tristan's resurrection; but he could still feel the residue of faded Light upon his own vibrant one.

"I will not let you," he muttered through gritted teeth, hands whitening as he clutched at the controls. A sensor started beeping—the fuel-gauge. If he didn't let up he would crash, and be stranded. Worse still was that Privateer, which was perfectly capable of vertical-take-off-and-landing all on its own. Crafty Fallen. They'd find him, kill him, take his stuff, perhaps his Ghost, and then his brother would be alone.

Not if he had anything to say about it. He still had one final trick up his sleeve—a dangerous one.

"August, prep for resurrection!" he ordered.

"What are you doing?"

"Something radical. Get this thing to that base. I can see it from here."

"Where are you going?"

An explosion rocked the ship's body before Tristan could answer, and the computer started screaming. The Arcadia began to spiral out of control, losing altitude rapidly as lunar gravity—near Earth's—pulled her down. Wrenching hard at his controls Tristan could do little to keep in control.

" _—SQ-1 to 2 I've lost my right engine I'm going down!_ " Tristan yelled. " _SQ-2—SQ-2—Theran_!"

With a gut-wrenching _jolt_ that he would be feeling for a long while after, the Arcadia's damaged, smoking engine smashed into a protrusion of rock, reducing both the rock to dust and tearing off half his ship's wing—moreover it sent the craft into a tumbling spin impossible to recover from. With finality she hit the ground, skipped once, twice, then continued in an unstoppable skid across the plain.

The Privateer's Vandal pilots cheered in their guttural tongue, and began to turn about to find the other hapless Guardian—

—to explode as a bolt of Arc lightning seemed to sail from up the surface and collide directly with the ship's underside, ripping a terminal hole through. With another explosion the Privateer disintegrated and its pieces went flying about, to scatter to unremarkable graves.

From where he stood Tristan had his hand outstretched; and with a thin roar a hammer of pure Arc energy returned. With another burst of light it vanished, and his Light was exhausted. Transmatting from out of his hiding place August the Ghost looked around. "Well," he announced. "Holliday will have our shells for this. There goes six hundred years of recovered Golden tech, smashed and totaled."

"Let's consider ourselves lucky there wasn't an NLS installed," Tristan remarked.

"True enough," August agreed. His Guardian turned and started walking. There, just nearly a kilometer from them, was the Moonbase—in fact, the ancient Accelerator that once shot transport pods to as far away as Mars long ago. Right around the corner would be the rest of the old colony; and the Hellmouth. August rotated in place, watching his Guardian's progress, before following after.

"It was just our fortune we exited that canyon before they got us," Tristan said. "Or, rather, before we went out of control." He glanced behind to where a V-shaped hole marked that canyon in a long lunar mountain range. A cloud of dust still floated, marking the spot of their terminal collision. "What on Earth have the space-demons been doing to Luna?"

"Carving it to fit their nefarious purposes and to build up an army to replace the one the Vanguard and the Seraphim devastated during the Disaster?"

"Very funny, August."

"As always, Master Ashkevron."

From then on they walked in silence. The Sparrow had been totaled in the crash and was unrecoverable; August managed to save all Tristan's guns and a fair amount of ammo packs, all of which he stored in that special pocket of space-time Ghosts had access to. Only gun Tristan had out in case a Vandal took a potshot at him was his trusty Psi Tempus III model pulse rifle, and he held it at the ready. But nothing seemed to like him much to shoot, so he didn't have to use it.

Eventually they reached the Accelerator, its long, nearly unbroken length stretching before them. Directly in front was that landing pad the Tower had pointed out. Sure enough it was clear of debris, including all the lights which marked it. "You reckon they had cargo ships land here?" Tristan asked as his boots thudded across plasteel instead of lunar rock. "It's nice and open."

"I wouldn't really know—ask Master Rahool."

Tristan waved that off. "Pshaw, that man is too dry to listen even at lectures. I keep falling asleep."

"And people say Theran is the crusty one."

"Hey, you know me, man. I'm all nice and friendly to everyone, it's my role in life. It's only when Rahool speaks I start to drop off."

August said slyly: "You never have forgiven him for that engram decoding, didn't you?"

"You _had_ to bring that up."

"Noëlle certainly wasn't very impressed—" Tristan's armored hand punted the Ghost down. Bouncing off the ground August immediately flew higher out of reach. "What'll she think of you now, if you can't handle good-natured ribbing?" he inquired tauntingly.

"That was uncalled for." Tristan glared at him.

"You were the one who spoke ill of Master Rahool!"

"Don't play the innocent act with me, young Ghost."

" _Young Ghost_?! I'll have you know I was—"

A low rumbling, sounding even through the thin atmosphere, caught their attention. Both turned to look. An Arcadia flew smoothly over the lunar landscape, slowing down, its landing lights on. Strangely it showed no signs of wear or tear, as if the previous fight hadn't occurred at all. Tristan simply shouldered his pulse rifle and looked on in disdain; August was visibly confused, shell twisting.

The landing gear extended and with a grumble the ship settled down not more than ten meters from them, bow facing them. Her lights flashed off, a ramp opened, and Theran came clunking down. His heavy, a Xerxes-E model machine gun, was strapped to his back and he hefted _Spirit_ , a SUROS PRR-11 model auto rifle, easily.

"Show off," Tristan grumbled. Theran heard him.

"Nah, just darn good luck. You won't believe what had—say." Theran paused and looked around. "Where's your ship?"

"I'll give you three guesses—an Arc missile, a Privateer, and a rock."

"All three then?" Theran whistled. "Holliday's not going to be happy."

"Tell me about it, lost the Sparrow too."

His twin flinched—both knew how angry Holliday could get if a ship or a Sparrow was lost beyond repair, and her wrath was legendary should both happen. "I'm really sorry for you, bro," he said with no sarcasm. Tristan shrugged. "I'll live," he quipped.

"So…" Theran continued. "What happened was this: I managed to get my Light to duplicate an Arcadia to get them to follow that. Only problem is I couldn't get it to leave me or stop following me—it stuck with me and so they had two targets to fire at."

"C'mon, Theran!" his brother exploded. "Void Light is damn-fool _dangerous_ to tamper with like that! You could have died, Jerome too!"

"Not to worry," a voice out of nowhere in particular announced. Moments later a Ghost materialized. Jerome favored the Questing Shell. "I was making sure he didn't overextend himself and crash us."

"Right, so as I was saying. With two targets to choose from, they fired at both—"

His brother groaned.

"—and it was at that moment I managed to sever the connection; the Void Arcadia zipped back." Theran made a flying motion with his gun-free hand. "And collided with them just like that." His hand smacked into _Spirit_ with a clunk. "You should have seen the explosion."

"As if the space-demons didn't already know we're coming."

"Ah, don't be a grouse, Tristan. What would Noëlle think of you?"

Tristan's fists balled and he launched a punch right at Theran

 _Thunk._

"Whoa, easy there, brother." Theran was grinning as he held his twin. "You can beat me up over your honor in the Crucible later—we have a mission to go on about."

"Yeah, that's right, a mission," Tristan snarled, wrenching his fist from the other's almost crushing grip. "And stop talking about Noëlle!" If one could see his face right about that moment they would swore it resembled a Shank's red and aflame chassis.

"I only said—!"

"Forget it." Tristan pointed over his shoulder irritably. "Get your Sparrow out. We're riding double."

"Jerome?"

"Certainly, Master Ashkevron."

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

They zoomed over a hill and flew for several meters before hitting earth again. "Ouch!" Tristan yelled. "I swear, if you keep doing that—!"

"—We'd be down a man, now stop your moanin'."

They had left the base long before. Theran's Arcadia was concealed as a pile of useless rubbish thanks to Jerome and Augustine, and would be undetectable to Fallen if any happened to sniff around there. Given the Accelerator's abandoned look no Fallen had been there in months, everything useful stripped away. With those Privateers all destroyed no one would be coming after them either.

Now they sped through empty streets of what used to be a semi-buried city here. Lunar rovers were still buried beneath moondust piling up thanks to light winds, along with the discarded detritus of scavengers picking over what was left. Great prefabricated habs once famous for their ability to endure now sat there cracked and broken, their domes holed. There was even a Warsat, on top of the flattened remains of a bunch of buried module-habs, a smashed half-satellite dish marking where the 'sat had barreled through during descent.

"Place is a gold mine," Theran remarked. "Good thing the space-demons keep their activities underground, and the Fallen scared away. We should come back here sometime."

"With working ships and no surprises," his twin grumbled. Theran only laughed and accelerated.

Before long they reached the great artificial crater that was the Hellmouth, a fortress seemingly carved into the face of the moon—actually, in fact marking the beginning of the long, prominent crack that could be seen from Earth. Gothic-looking, black, spiky, and all sorts of creepiness to it, the Hive base didn't seem all that impressive above ground. It was what was below that made it impressive.

And no Fallen or Hive anywhere.

Theran slowed and eventually stopped behind a large rock, where they dismounted. From here on out it was on foot. "Jerome?" The Sparrow transmatted away, to be hidden in Jerome's pocket-stasis. "All right," Theran said, "let's move!" Hefting _Spirit_ , he set off followed by his brother, who cocked his Psi Tempus.

Both Titans advanced upon the entrance of the fortress, a hole torn into the side of another low mountain ringing the massive crater. There were no enemies there. There was no need for them. The Hive ruled this place through fear, and lowlifes were smart enough to recognize that. Still that was no reason to let one's guard down. The horror stories of Guardians doing that stunt on Earth was enough to keep both alert.

"Entrance: clear."

"Antechamber: clear."

"Sidedoors: clear." To be honest, they looked less like doors and more like massive castle gates set into rock.

"Tunnel: clear."

Quickly and methodically they advanced deeper into the Hellmouth, moving through tunnels higher than three Therans and slipping past empty rooms of almost gargantuan size. The lack of enemies was starting to unnerve them. Hadn't that Guardian's reports of Hive being active on Luna—and from the Temple of Crota no less!—specified hundreds of Hive moving? Surely numbers of that magnitude would have left marks here that could be seen; they didn't exactly keep the place clean.

"I'm getting a very bad feeling about this," Jerome said much later as he appeared to scan the massive, inert body of a seedership pointing upward. Its jagged, spearlike shape sitting in the launch-chamber was enough to send chills through both Guardians' bodies. From the reports of Guardians on Earth it buried the bulk of that body when it slammed home, and proved nearly impossible to dislodge once rooted in.

"Yeah, me too," Theran said quietly. Tristan didn't reply, only kept watch behind Theran's back.

Jerome was almost finished with his scan when a shriek filled the air.

"Demons!" Tristan yelled, whirling about and pointing his gun toward the noise.

As Theran brought up _Spirit_ to bear, a set of doors slowly slid aside, grinding as disused mechanisms forced them open, and a swarm of thin Thrall poured out, many running on all fours, flowing toward them both. Behind scuttled taller creatures, dreaded Acolytes the Warlock orders spoke about in hushed tones. These were armed with weapons, unlike the Thrall, who had nothing but claws and teeth. These were clearly the support units.

Tristan let off several triple-bursts, and the bullets tore into several Thrall. Some keeled over, sliding as their forward momentum pushed them. Others exploded in a shower of ash while others fell disintegrating. Soon his fists were flying as they swarmed about him, gun dropping to the floor, Arc booms signaling his power transmuting them effortlessly.

Theran meanwhile had a different idea. Taking a knee he pulled out instead the Xerxes-E, jammed a full magazine, and let loose. Many Thrall blew apart howling as Void rounds blasted through them, soon clearing the area. He brought his gun to bear on the supporting Acolytes, who fired back intermittently in return but ducked back before they could lose their heads. Some weren't so lucky, their chosen refuge of rock simply disintegrating.

His brother grabbed a Thrall by the throat, crushed it, and used its body as a makeshift weapon, battering aside several others. One's arm he broke outright with a meaty crack and stunned it; another caved its head in, brains and bone exploding out. Focusing Arc energy he reared up and punched the ground, denting the metal, causing a shockwave to blow back all his enemies. While not as devastating as a Fist of Havoc it was still pretty effective.

Grabbing his gun he let off a few rounds at an Acolyte sneaking behind his brother. It fell back missing an arm and half its head. Then he joined Theran in ridding the rest.

Once the battle concluded, both relaxed.

"Status report, Jerome?" Theran asked when he had recovered enough to speak, the adrenaline slow to fade.

"Thirty-six Thrall and seventeen Acolytes attacked. You took out most of the Acolytes while Tristan killed twenty-two Thrall and one Acolyte. The rest of the Thrall are totaled."

"Any bigger baddies?"

"Negative—just a shadow," Jerome indicated beyond the open door, "in there."

"You think it might be a Mother?" Tristan asked quietly.

Theran shook his head. "No, not here. These are the upper levels, if I gauge it right. Mothers would be far down below, possibly some are where we need to go. It _might_ be a Witcher…"

"If it is, we'll kill it. Let's go. They aren't going to be waiting for us."

Scooping up his discarded magazine Theran stood and followed his brother. Jerome took one last look at the seedership before transmatting back into Theran's armor. Together the brothers descended deeper into Hell.

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

It went bad from worse straightaway.

No sooner had they reached a room Jerome confirmed as the entrance leading down to the particular Summoning they encountered a runic pentagram seal barring the doors. A lingering stench filled the place. According to the previous reports, this was where the Guardian had picked up the Sword of Crota and slew the Princes defending it. There no bodies, but the marks from that battle were in evidence.

As Jerome and August dealt with the runes, their Titan Guardians turned and stood guard. Just as fortunate that they did. " _Thrall_!" Tristan shouted, firing.

Screaming as a howling storm, a vast and endless swarm of Thrall—some with four arms or over-exaggerated heads—poured out from every open door and blasted hole right at them. It took all of their combined powers and nearly half their ammunition to overwhelm. Immediately after several glowing blue creatures charged them, supported by more Thrall. Theran quickly tossed a magnetic grenade upon them.

 _Boom!_

"Look out!" Theran shouted as the room started to rumble, glowing Thrall detonating one after the other, spraying body parts and black ichor and ash everywhere. By the time the resulting explosion have subsided, the entrance had been blasted into a wider hole, weakened the pillars, and tore up the chamber's already scarred appearance.

"Never do that again."

"Heads up! here comes another." Theran unlimbered his Xerxes.

The third Hell-wave was announced by thumping footsteps.

Marching in through the enlarged doorway was a monster twice Theran's height. Humanoid, clad in red bone and chitin, and armed with a massive cleaver-like blade, it gave both Titans pause—right before they both unloaded their heavies into it, Theran his machine gun, Tristan his _Thor's Hammer_ launcher. Unfortunately it took one look at them and a wall of darkness sprang up to consume their fire. While this happened, two more of them marched behind followed behind by more Thrall, armed not with blades but heavy-looking cannons of sorts. As Tristan reloaded he noticed them only just in time.

" _Get down!_ " he yelled to Theran, and promptly followed his own advice.

With a sound to rival Holliday in her legendary wrath, the Knights' weapons loosed forth globules of blue-white fire, screeching as they arched toward the Titans. Tristan dove out of the way, Arc energy gathering in his hands, while Theran stood firm. Just before they reached him a Void wall sprung up, halting them with a boom. Tristan then took advantage to throw an Arc hammer at the three Knights.

The first one raised its sword with both hands and slammed it on the ground; the shockwave reflected the Arc hammer back, and Tristan had to quickly get out of its way. The others moved in, firing more of their fell weapons, Thrall screeching as they charged. Theran continued to stand, Void wall hovering before him, as they advanced. Then as one Knight passed through the Titan brought both hands together with a resounding _clap_ —and the Void detonated.

Its severed, bisected, and decapitated body flew in all directions away from him, dissolving into nothingness, followed by a thousand particles of the floor and ash. The effect was somewhat pretty, like colorful confetti at a party.

The Hive halted, examining Theran. The blade-armed Knight gestured with its weapon, pointing at Theran; he shrugged back at it. A lightning bolt slammed into the Hive warriors, scattering Thrall like so many sticks of dynamite. With bellowing roars a Knight sank to its knee, the other flying to leave a sizable crater in the wall. Tristan ran toward the kneeling one, a warhammer in hand. As it raised its crowned head to look at him, three green eyes burning with hatred, the Titan leapt up and obliterated it with the power of Thor.

The resultant shockwave cracked the floor and broke the already sagging pillars. As the last Knight struggled to get out its self-dug prison both Guardians turned to their Ghosts, who finally managed to break the rune seal, and began running like Hell. When it finally did get free, landing on the floor bellowing in triumph, the Knight failed to realize it destabilized the only remaining pillar.

The dust from that chamber's collapse took a long time to dissipate, and by then the Guardians were long gone in the dark tunnels. Now they moved cautiously with a care to not break their legs. Jerome and August provided their own lights, moving before their Guardians, keeping watch.

"There's an awful lot of moisture down here," Tristan remarked, nudging a clump of fungus-like goo. It squelched under his boot, and gave off a foul odor. "Ugh. Don't tell me they eat these things?"

"Hive biology from autopsies—mind you, very incomplete autopsies—indicate they can consume any variety of organic material regardless of source or planetary origin," August opined. "They are therefore either completely immune or very nearly immune to most diseases and microbes. Those they are not kill them pretty quickly. If that is any comfort."

"Yeah, very comforting. I don't want to know how they deal with the common cold."

"Like how they dealt with us, you mean," Theran added. Both brothers shuddered, thinking back.

"They probably deal with it by brute and unthinking force either way," Tristan said superfluously, making a sound of disgust.

Both Ghosts looked to one another and snorted—a remarkable thing for a machine to replicate—then continued on. "We should be nearing the place any moment now," Jerome said.

"Where's that?"

"Oh, we don't know exactly. But from the increase in Darkness—"

"C'mon, August, don't be literal."

"—I am not, and thank you for letting me continue, Master Ashkevron; from the increase of Darkness, we are very close to the summoning chambers."

"I really don't want to face a Mother," Tristan said firmly.

"Nonsense, it'd be Witchers most probably. They were the ones who, according to the Cosmodrome report, that tried to go after Rasputin. If its anything, it'll be them."

"Thanks for the encouragement."

"No problem." Theran grinned from under his helm.

Eventually the dark tunnel opened out into a massive cavern. If it was a similar cavern back on Earth it'll be full of crystalline structures and rock formations of breathtaking beauty. However, it was not—platforms seemingly hung in mid air, disappearing and reappearing at intervals, some adjacent to rock walls while others were at different elevations. Far down below was a sea of green magma; well, it looked like magma, but there was no indication of heat whatsoever.

"Don't tell me—"

"Yes, we're going to cross this."

"Damn it, Theran."

Jerome flew on ahead, casting his scanning beacon across the platforms. Turning back, his voice sounded in their helms. "We can stabilize the platforms for a short time. But let's hurry."

The brothers shrugged, and leapt forward.

Halfway across the platforms a scream echoed across the cavern. A tall floating being hove into view behind them, rising up from the depths as a spirit. Clothed in crumbling finery and baneful attire of green and black, the Wizard screeched again as she lifted her arms high. Several of her sisters rose around her, separating off into their own flights, and flew after the brothers.

Tristan unlimbered his sidearm—a Thalestris-C model—and fired off three shots in quick succession at a Wizard nearing him. It screeched as the shots disintegrated harmlessly around an invisible barrier, rimmed with orange. "Oh, this is just great," he cried out, and redoubled his running and jumping.

His twin, meanwhile, was further ahead than he was. Two Wizards shot up in front of him, eliciting a yell from him as he stumbled and tried to keep himself from falling. Fall he did but backwards, landing with a thump on the platform.

"Ow," he muttered, starting to get up. A chuckling sound came from one of the floating demons; as one they raised their bare arms, hands balled into glowing fists, and let loose the fury of the Darkness upon him.

"Theran!" Tristan shouted as the other was engulfed in a cloud of ebony. Whipping out his rifle he sighted the Wizards—only to leap back as an sizzling blade of Arc energy cut it in twain. "Oh, you've _gotta_ be kidding me," he shouted as another Wizard blocked his view. She hissed at him. "Yeah, you and me, sister," he snarled back at her.

His Light wasn't strong enough to summon a hammer to smash her, but it was strong enough for a grenade to form into his hand. "Eat this—!" he yelled, tossing it at her. Snarling she let off a blast to shoot him off the platform—only to painfully scream as the flashbang went off right in her eyes. Clutching her face she drifted about randomly, trying to get at him.

A shot from his sidearm caused her to drop like a stone.

Backing up Tristan took a running leap and flew through the air just as his platform disintegrated. Landing, and rolling, he came up running and continued his sprint towards his brother.

Theran had only just managed to throw up a Ward before his face, but it was barely enough. The battle with the Knights of before had taken much out of his Light, not to mention the replication and detonation of a fake Arcadia. Down here, smothered by the power of the Darkness itself, it was slow to return. He heard a voice call for him but he couldn't look back—he had to maintain concentration. As he sank to one knee his hands shook violently, the Void only a half a meter from touching. It was warping under the withering blast of the demons' assault. At any moment it could crack. He didn't want that to happened. A light appeared behind him. _Jerome_!

"Save—save yourself!" he croaked. "G—Get away, now!"

The light did nothing of the sort. Managing he turned his head slightly to see Jerome hovering quite a distance aways from him, shell pieces extended and glowing brightly. Behind it came a Wizard, her claws outstretched.

"No!" he choked.

Suddenly a gun transmatted into view behind the Ghost, pointing at the Wizard. Startled she halted in midair, arms raised in defense. The Xerxes hovered for a moment before all hell let loose. The Wizard only had time to summon a shield very similar to the Knights before both that and her natural protections shredded, blowing her to pieces a moment later.

Smoking, but finished, the Xerxes spun around and floated above Jerome. Theran realized what the Ghost was doing. Just then his Ward disintegrated, and with a cry he collapsed, burning energies ripping at him.

A rattling, booming sound roared, and his world appeared to rotate around him.

" _Hey, Theran!_ "

The voice seemingly echoed, reverberating in his skull, like in a distant cave. _Wha—What?_

" _Hey, bud, just hang on—quickly, August_!"

He was hurting; everything was hurting. His arm felt like it was going to be wrenched out of its socket.

" _Theran! listen to me, don't look down; I repeat, don't look down_!"

How could he look down if he was lying on his back. It didn't make sense. Nothing made sense. He could feel the Void beckoning to him, whispering sweet things to him. Surely it would be all right to just let go and release all of his troubles. After all, Jerome would revive him and he'd be right as rain, wouldn't he? Standard procedure, right?

"Give me your arm—no, give it to me! That's it, that's it, now hold on—"

A face swam in and out of view. Tristan's—wait, why was he not wearing his helmet? His brother's straw-colored hair dripped with sweat, it looked like. Or was that his vision playing tricks on him? Why was his voice getting louder?

Suddenly reality slammed home—Theran gasped and realized where he was. Somehow he had fallen and Tristan was spending all of his energy to pull him up. Wait, _what?!_ What did he say? Don't look down? He gulped.

"Finally awake, eh, bro?" Tristan grunted. "Don't worry, you'll be up in no time!" and he continued pulling all the harder.

At last both brothers collapsed onto solid ground, heaving. Theran quickly pulled his helm off, revealing a shock of sweaty, black hair, and breathed in huge gulps of humid air, lying flat on his stomach. His brother meanwhile laid down, resting upon his elbows, head thrown back. "What happened?" Theran gasped out.

"Your Ward-thingy exploded and sent you flying over the edge," Tristan answered. "At the same time your floating machine gun blew up both witches. Then I pulled you up. Don't worry," he added. "Funny thing—your explosion sent you closer to the other side rather than nearer to me. I don't know how I got there—"

Both Ghosts spoke at once:

"I redirected his flight—" Jerome said.

"I made you fly—" August offered.

"Yeah, whatever—but somehow I did, grabbed you, and now here we are."

"Those Witchers?"

"Yeah, they were Witchers all right. We killed about four of them. The other one flew off. If they didn't know we're coming, they do now."

"Zavala always—always said to—to—to never underes—underestimate—your enemy," Theran breathed harshly. His twin shrugged. "I think he got that from some dead Chinese general. No, not a Guardian, I checked. Still, we're not going anywhere for a while. Rest here, let the Light build up in us. There is a lot of ambient Light here," Tristan commented. "Don't know why it'd be in a place of Darkness. Atmosphere is stable regardless. Thank God."

Theran could only nod his head.

August, inspecting the platforms, swiveled about and announced: "You know, we didn't have to have run across them."

"You're kidding me, right?"

The Ghost shook its whole body in a parody of _no_. "Once something steps on them they stay formed, and there are more platforms in the gaps that were just permanently invisible. If you stepped on them they would appear."

"You are kidding me," Tristan answered, resigned. "No wonder Theran skipped and bounced on thin air."

"I feel awful," his twin groaned.

"Stop your moaning, and rest. I'll stand guard—oh and, uh," Tristan reached over and picked up Xerxes from where it lay. "I'll be using this for a while."

"Be my guest."

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

Fully recovered both brothers continued on. Tristan carried the machine gun while Theran held out _Spirit_. Jerome and August continued their duty of being floating flashlights, although it was hardly needed at all as the ambient lighting was so strong it was like a sun was down in the darkness. A sun of pale lime-green light. Wait—that didn't make sense, completely unnatural! No, it was the _Hive_ who were unnatural.

Made sense.

Tristan shook his head. Zavala was right in sending Titans here, not Warlocks or Hunters. Actually, no, now that he thought about it Hunters would make a better choice. They saw so many sorts of bizarre things out in the wild that things like near invisible suns of lime-green wouldn't faze them a single bit. Or whatever he was thinking—the battle had rattled him completely, what with rescuing his brother and all.

"How far now, Jerome?" Theran asked quietly, voice echoing. They were hugging the sides of a massive cavern, slowly descending. Tristan only hoped their destination was close.

The Ghost flew over the edge and angled downward.

"I was afraid you're going to say that."

"It's what we do, Master Ashkevron," Jerome replied with forced cheeriness.

Roars suddenly echoed from below. They were commingled with equal pain and rage, hunger. As Tristan looked below, he could see shapes in the misty green fog, distant. Huge.

"Are those what I think they are?"

"Yeah," his brother confirmed. "Just like the EDZ."

Tristan gulped. "I see why Zavala wanted Titans to spearhead this. Why oh why didn't we accept a third in this fireteam?"

"Because we're arrogant sons-of-dogs, that's what!" His brother clapped on the back.. "C'mon, brother, where's your sense of adventure?"

"It got left behind with the Witchers…"

"Well let's drag it back out, even I have to do this. We're going to finish our duty, and not even the Lords of Iron will boast of tales like it." Theran turned and continued, Jerome at his side, a spring in his step. "Sooner it's finished," he added. "Sooner you and I can go home to sleep safely."

Tristan gazed reluctantly down at the moving shapes before following. August lingered a bit longer, electronic expression unreadable, but also relented.

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

" _Now!_ "

Theran and Tristan whirled from out behind their pillared cover and let loose a torrent of Light-infused bullets, and ripped a swath of bodies. Thrall and Acolytes exploded into ash and flesh and blood, their ranks decimated; the glowy blue thingies with them let loose with thunderous roars as their magically infused bodies overloaded, leaving behind massive craters in the ground, and incidentally causing more havoc among the ranks.

Two Knights standing guard by the closed great double-doors leading into the summon chamber proper bellowed and lunged forward, lifting their blade on high—and fell, their heads holed by gunfire. One slumped backward against the wall while the other collapsed on one knee to faceplant the ground with no dignity whatsoever. The lone Witcher with them screamed as her body disintegrated into a flash of ash, leaving behind no residue except a small bone knife dropping with a clatter.

Within seconds the entire antechamber had been cleared.

Tristan nodded at his brother, saying "good shootin'" wordlessly. Theran only grinned morbidly beneath his helm, and advanced forward. They had surprised the space-demons all right, but that advantage would not last long.

As they near the door, a prickling on Tristan's neck caused him to turn. Hovering high in the corners of the antechamber were six metallic diamond-like structures. As Tristan brought his gun to bear upon them, they opened, two by two, revealing a swirling Void mass inside.

"Theran!" he yelled.

His brother turned.

With high shrieks the Hive turrets fired their Void projectiles down at them. The rattling of Tristan's Xerxes and _dakaka_ of Theran's SUROS answered. The brothers separated to draw enemy fire, and Tristan rolled behind a pillar, Void blasts thundering at his feet. Pausing to reload, he asked, "August, how do we deal with those things?"

"Coordinating with Jerome now." The Ghost glowed for a moment, then focused on Tristan. "If you focus on the turrets on Theran's side of the room, you can destroy them with minimal hazard to yourself."

"All right, thanks." Finished, Tristan knelt, placed his machine gun upon a knee, aimed at the furthest line of turrets he could see: and let loose. Muted explosions told of his—and Theran's—success. "Nice suggestion," he commented, moving out of cover.

"I'll say. It was Jerome who suggested it initially," Theran answered, meeting him. His eyes then glazed over, and before Tristan could react, jumped on him, throwing a Ward over them.

The dying echoes of the turrets slammed home, pointlessly. Theran held the Ward for a bit longer, then let it fade away.

"That'll be something for the reports," Tristan muttered. _Trust nothing in this place,_ his mind added.

"You can say that again."

The brothers approached the great doubledoors. Tristan examined their carven surface, noting the runic seals upon it. It seemed there were ten times as many seals as the one they broke to get in deeper. "Stand back." As Theran obliged, Tristan summoned a scintillating battleaxe of pure Arc energy and smashed it home against the obstruction before them.

Seven times he smote the doors, each time fragmenting and disintegrating the seals. At last they gave way, the doors too, and the entire structure fell in before the might of Thor.

"Hello, ladies," he said amicably, stepping over the ruins. "We're here to crash your party."

A monstrous scene met their eyes.

Seven massive creatures knelt upon the floor between tall arched pillars in a great circle, roaring with pain as Witchers flew among them, dark energies flowing into each individual beast. With their arms chained by hundreds of black chains of unnatural alloys they could do little but snap at their tormentors. Approximately fourteen Wizards were there, two to a beast, and rotating. Ringing this ritual were rows upon rows of kneeling Acolytes, holding up their weapons—some suspiciously resembling the ones carried by the Knights they had faced earlier—in supplication or adoration or whatever they did. Several Knights knelt in front of them, their swords point down. Too many to count. Just great.

In the center was a central, taller pillar, easily the biggest of the lot, topped by a glowing star—the source of the cavern's unusual light. Tethered to that pillar was a weird beast: it resembled a Thrall, but bent over double and flailing about, growing bigger. Surrounding it were four more Wizards—Mothers—obviously the leaders of this ritual. Tristan surmised this simply by noting their outrageously elaborate headdresses.

"Well, fudge."

"Buck up, bro," Theran said, his hands starting to glow with the Void and bathing his auto rifle. "We got a job. And dang it if we're going to let numbers stop us. Didn't stop the Stoneborn, won't stop us now."

"Easy for you to say. We drew the short stick."

"Time to beat them with it," Theran shot back.

One by the one the Acolytes noticed them, and broke away from their prayers. The situation didn't grow serious until one of the Knights saw them. Bellowing, it stood, lifting its sword as a challenge, and got the attention of the rest—right before its head blew apart with good ol' Xerxes' pumpin' a round through it.

Theran ran left, auto rifle blazing madly, Acolyte shots missing and hitting at his feet, their shooters falling with a number of bullets in their chests. His brother ran toward the other, spraying and praying with the machine gun, cutting down even more enemies than did his brother. One of the Witchers screamed—a round from one of the brothers (Tristan always swore later that it was Theran who fired it, while his brother denied it flatly) had missed and hit one of the monsters they later learned were Ogres.

With a roar to drown out even the Knights the monstrosity tore free of its restraints (and tearing up the pillars) and swung out madly at the source of the pain. Unfortunately another Ogre was the target, causing _it_ to cry out, free itself, and lash in retaliation; and this started a chain reaction that got both the Hive scrambling away from them and the brothers literally up to their necks with runners.

Side-doors ringing the vast chamber opened and out ran a flood of Thrall, mutated or otherwise, to replace the falling or fleeing Acolytes—what purpose it served the brothers never learned. Meanwhile the Witchers were doing all they could to try and maintain order, which wasn't working out too well as one or another would suddenly explode as auto rifle or machine gun rounds tore through.

Tristan's Xerxes was smashed by a Knight's sword as he attempted to block—the pieces falling away, Arc Light blazed in his hands and the Titan landed a punch to the floor. Immediately a spider webbing of cracks rumbled and snapped throughout a twenty meter radius, disintegrating or annihilating every living thing made of Darkness, temporarily clearing the area of enemies. Rising, a battleaxe forming in his hands of the same Light, Tristan came face to face with one of the Mothers.

"Oh _hell_!" was all he could say.

Letting loose a shriek that would have melted his eardrums the Mother pulled out a writhing thing from her girdle and aimed. A report sounded, and the Titan rolled out of its way. Looking back, the ground upon which he stood had a neat little crater of about ten centimeters. Tristan gulped and looked back, preparing to fight or dodge.

Meanwhile, as his brother unleashed obliteration with the power of Thor, Theran handled things differently. His auto rifle fired too slowly to kill everything so he let it transmat back into storage and instead summoned several magnetics, which he promptly threw willy-nilly all about. Thos things detonated twice and he didn't want to be anywhere near when they blew, so he tossed them as far as he could. For those at close range he pulled a variation of the Warlock's manipulation of the Void and detonated Acolytes and Thrall wherever he placed his fist.

At last, area clear of enemies, he dropped back down from he hovered, and before him stood two Knights. Both were singed from his grenade proliferation, and both were quite angry; he quickly rolled as one brought his blade down, cracking the floor. Thrusting both hands forward, using what Warlocks labeled simply "Force Push", Theran sent it soaring high through the air before an angry Ogre swatted it to a messy death.

The other Knight lumbered forward and swung his blade, not down but across, and Theran, hands glowing, caught the blade. Immediately pain wracked his body as it cut into him, but, gritting his teeth, he persevered and pushed back. The last thing the Knight saw was its own weapon cutting it through the middle, touched by the Void, and vanished in a swirl of light.

A boom caught his attention—looking up he saw his brother deflecting several shots of poisonous green fired by multiple Witchers, his battleaxe crackling with each hit. He quickly gauged his surroundings: two of the Ogres were down, mauled to death by their brothers, a third wounded and about to collapse, the one in the center a bloody, pulpy mess (another Ogre hunched over, obviously wolfing down what was left), and the other remaining three being brought to heel by angry Witchers firing darkness at them.

His way was clear.

Snapping into a sprint Theran charged. In one hand he shaped Void Light into a shimmering sword of arcane energies, in the other a tricorner shield emblazoned with the combined sigils of the Firebreak Order and New Monarchy—a living flame supported by the three-marked pyramid. Yelling forth a battlecry, he charged in the midst of the dead and dying. With his blade he cut open the fallen, ensuring those Ogres would never rise again; with his shield he blocked and absorbed enemy shots, and bashed several foolhardy Thrall climbing up to get him.

The wounded Ogre looked at him and roared, spraying the Titan with foul breath and searing hatred unfelt by his armor. Holding his shield before him, and letting the Void cover him as magical armor, Theran charged directly into its gaping maw and burst out the other side. This caught the attention of the fourth Ogre, which had finished its feast of the chained body. Standing, this one suffered the least of its rampaging fellows, its body free of freshly made marks. Dark energy still sizzled from it. As Theran came to a halt, the monster roared and without warning, sent forth a blast of the Void from its head.

The Titan dodged it, rolling around and coming up closer. The Ogre swiveled its gaze, the long fell beam cutting a furrow in the shattered floor, tracking him. He steadily drew nearer and nearer, dashing from one side to the other, displaying a speed only Hunters could lay claim to, his body energized with the Light's fury at such blasphemy before him.

Finally reaching it he swung and cut out its leg from beneath. Howling with pain the beast sank to the floor, bringing its fist down to squash him in the process. Not deterred he rolled out of the way to cut down its other leg, then its arm, sliding as he went. Beneath its roars he mounted the beast from behind, jumped, and brought his blade down through the brain.

It collapsed with a thunderous boom, shaking dust from the floor.

Meanwhile Tristan was in trouble. Showing a refusal to stay still for longer than a moment, the Mother continued to press him, firing that fell weapon of hers. Green fire snaked out to lick at him and he beat it back with lightning's might. But she had him backing up into a corner, up against the wall with no open doors nearby, where he could maneuver his oversized blade no longer.

Two of her sisters flew to flank her. These were ordinary Witchers, small horns curving up from modest crowns, and their dresses were shorter, more raggedy. Not like her crown, which was elegant, longer; her attire was finer, longer. Whatever she was, this Mother clearly was the head boss of the bosses. Tristan took all of this in only briefly, more concerned with her weapon's fire.

His back hitting the wall he could do little but twirl his battleaxe, a skill he used often to impress the ladies back home and failed miserably both because he knew it would elicit laughs and because he was legitimately terrible at maintaining it. When his life was on the line, he wasn't thinking much about theatrics—what was clear to him is that he lost control and the blade spun away from him, fading away as its connection to his Light was severed.

With no other weapon he pulled his Thalestris and—

—immediately lost it. Hand burning he dropped the sidearm as it literally melted into a puddle.

The Mother laughed. A really horrible sound, like nails on a chalkboard. Even through his helm it hurt. Then she lowered her weapon, its fire dim, and leaned in. She spoke words incomprehensible but they burned and ate at him. As she neared he discovered, to his horror, that he could understand them—they seem to come from a place deep within. It was nothing— _nothing_ —like telepathy of story-books, even at its most horrible.

This was quite simply the recognition a prey animal felt when about to die.

" _Dear sweet thing,_ " she whispered, her voice soft and fell in his mind, " _you have trespassed upon a most holy ground, breaking the covenant your brothers and sisters paid in life and blood. Their excesses are free now because of you and your twin. You will suffer for it, knowing that you have unleashed horrors upon your little fortress of hope. The Eater will devour it, it and your brother—but you, you sweet thing, shall linger to witness._ "

One of the attending Witchers screamed moments before her body dissolved into a translucent matrix of energy; the other danced away, weapon firing, but too was slain by a whirl of eminence. Hissing, the leader sprang away, missing Theran's blade by inches; the lowermost tatters of her dress floated into nothingness, severed.

Tristan, free of the spell of her voice, almost fell forward before his brother caught him.

"Snap out of it!" A gauntlet clanked against his head. "We still got Ogres."

"R—Right," Tristan gasped. He was sure his face was white. Coughing suddenly he doubled over and nearly vomited. Fortunately the Light within prevented anything of his breakfast from emerging.

"Feeling better?"

"Yeah." Tristan coughed again, instinctively wiping his faceplate.

Meanwhile the head Mother had returned to her sisters, of which five remained. Screeching she lifted her weapon high and brought it down. With roars the three relatively undamaged Ogres were forced forward by their Witcher handlers; and eventually the floor began rumbling as they broke into small trots of their own accord, needing little "encouragement".

Theran turned toward them, his shield and sword of the Void still shimmering. "Still got enough Light?" he asked.

Tristan thought back to the Witcher's words, of how dark everything felt as her words one-by-one punctured his mind, leaving behind pain. He remembered the horrors conjured up by them, few as they were but potent. He felt August, silent throughout, transmatting beside him in a flash of Light. "You can do it!" the Ghost whispered. "I know you can. It's why I chose you, after so long. _We_ can do this!"

Jerome transmatted beside Theran, hovering to where Tristan could see. "We're in this together," he affirmed.

Regarding the oncoming horde, Tristan's strained face broke into a smile. "Well by Jove we are indeed!" he exclaimed. He felt the Arc returning in a roar, the distilled Light of this fell place swirling around them as a vortex. The witch was right—their fellow Guardians, all of whom they had never known, had paid the price for this victory, and their Light was ready to exact vengeance upon their tormentors.

"By God let's show these devils how we roll!" he yelled, holding up his hand; a battleaxe of the Arc burst into being.

"That's the spirit!"

Together they charged the oncoming Ogres with cries of victory.

The first Ogre they took on together. Slamming his battleaxe down Tristan rocked it backward with a blaze of thunder and lightning, causing it to cry out. As it stumbled Theran took a running leap, propelled by the force of Light, swung his sword and cut off its head in a flash. The beast crashed down, defeated, as the brothers ran past.

Tristan chucked his axe into the ground and used its momentum to fly up into the air. As his Ogre looked up and fired its searing eye beams Tristan yelled a battlecry and sent forth a whirling storm of electricity as he spun around horizontally in midair. The whirling circle of Arc intercepted the Void blast and cleft it in twain, traveling down its length. Still continuing on over Tristan bounced through the air in a burst of Light, and spun vertically. Another circle of Arc fired forth and lanced straight into the Ogre's back. Howling, it reared its head—to have the first Arc shot cut through its throat.

Hitting the ground with a blast of Arc, he stood and took off, racing for the Witchers wreathed in lightning and power. Behind him the Ogre exploded in a shower of pure Light as the Arc energies within overloaded and detonated.

Meanwhile Theran jumped and dodged as the Ogre fired its eye beams almost immediately after the death of its forward brother. At last getting within melee range he jumped and dashed forward—landing, nearly getting roasted alive, he brought his blade down cutting off half its face. As it reared up it pain he pushed up off the head, grabbing his sword in both hands, and brought down upon the top.

Then as it swung to try and get him off Theran instead swung around his weapon, withdrawing his blade only to fly higher, and came back down the same spot. Its roars deafened him, along with the distant screams of the Witchers and the dying bellows of the other Ogre. Pushing off, not quite finished, he again utilized the same "Force Push" Warlocks were fond of using, blasting it backwards several times, forcing it off balance. As it staggered, ready to collapse, he flung two magnetics toward it—as they exploded, he dashed forward and cut off both legs at the knee. The beast was ended, and it fell dead. As it fell he took off running, roughly around the same time his brother landed, his own Ogre vanishing.

The Witchers, seeing the battle was lost—it took the brothers only a bare minute to end three Unborn Ogres—quickly turned and fled, their leader screeching with rage. The brothers, laughing, jumped again. This time Theran reshaped his weapons into a single blast reminiscent of Warlocks and let loose while Tristan sent out streams of Arc towards the fleeing Wizards. The effects were thus—the Void sphere flew and detonated violently in the midst of the Witchers; cords of eminence lashed out to bind them in place; and the Arc disks reached each bound witch and fried her to an ashen crisp.

The twins landed in silence. The smoking corpses of the Ogre abominations lay curled behind them, hundreds of lesser creatures scattered or clumped together. Heaving, suddenly weak, the Titans simply stood collecting their breath. Never before had they just cause to exercise their Light like this. It felt wonderful—and painful. Like running unprepared or not properly readying for lifting.

"Ow!"

"You can say that again."

"You two are going to be the death of us," Jerome announced, transmatting into view. "When Ikora hears of how you nearly destroyed yourselves, she'll be—"

"Pleased?" Theran suggested.

"Knowing?" Tristan added.

"Well, both I suppose, but very displeased nonetheless."

"But, on the plus side," August said, "you've got a new set of stories to tell the Hunters. _And_ ," here he looked sly, "I'll bet Noëlle will want to hear every bit of it."

Theran laughed himself hoarse as he watched Tristan angrily try to grab his Ghost but failed repeatedly by falling flat on his stomach as Light-exhaustion overwhelmed him.

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

" _Good work, SQ-1, Titans_ ," Zavala congratulated. " _With this victory we have begun the first in a campaign that will see the eradication of the Hive from Luna, and allow us to reclaim our worlds. You have done well. I expect you both will be out on the front-lines taking the fight to them_."

"Yeah, thanks Commander," Theran said.

"What he said," Tristan added, hunched behind him. "I'm looking forward to the Blustery Brew myself."

" _Yes—take the time to remember what you have done, that you have bought this City some more time to live._ " Zavala concluded. " _Zavala out._ "

" _Oh, and drinks are on me_!" a new voice chimed in.

" _Cayde, you have a_ job—"

" _Oh don't worry, this work won't walk off on its own without me. I can take a few hours._ "

A sigh was all that left Zavala before the radio was cut.

"It'll be good to walk back on good ol' Terra again," Tristan said. "That lunar air was a little too thin for me. Not enough wind."

"Urgh." Theran wrinkled his nose. "Did you have to phrase it quite like that?"

"Whoopsie, sorry, bro. Anyhow, I was thinking a few days of patrol on the Wall will be what the doctor ordered, nothing to do except watch for nice Fallen and take potshots at 'em. What do you say?"

"I'll pass. I feel like I could sleep for a week. The Void does that to you."

"Well, sweet dreams—oh, and let me drive. I don't want you to crash and take out the fun if you're that sleepy."

"Be my guest." Theran stood and let his brother have the controls. "Besides, you'll have to report in anyway."

"Why's that?"

Innocently, Theran answered, "You'll have to explain to both Holliday and Banshee why an Arcadia, a Sparrow, my Xerxes, your sidearm and pulse rifle got lost on a single mission." Smiling he moved to the back of the cockpit. "Happy trails."

"Oh come on! I don't deserve any of this!"

"Then take better care of yourself next time."

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

Deep beneath Luna, in a dark cavern lit only with darker green fire upon pillars of adamantine stone, two Knights and a Wizard walked down a promenade. Lapping either side was a dark sea of inky water, lights dancing across its surface. Occasionally the tiny form of a nascent Thrall would climb out, its pupae stage falling away, and disappear; none touched the promenade, lest they be crushed by an armored boot.

Eventually the trio reached a circular platform in the center of the black lake surrounding them. Three other walkways like the one they came connected it. Upon this platform was an altar, tall and unholy—there was mounted upon it a majestic, winged statue, the sword it held facing point down. Its wings lay folded, but the semblance of strength was implied.

Prostrating itself before was another Wizard. She took no notice of the coming three until they stopped.

" _Xyor…_ "

The Knights knelt, clanging their swords in imitation of the statue. Only the Wizard Mother remained standing, her head bowed.

The other turned and floated up. Taller, grander than even the Mother, this one was clearly marked as nobility by her green-and-yellow robe and symmetrical crown, a crown which denoted venerable age. Power gathered at her fingertips, potential waiting to be released. This was Omnigul, the Will of Crota and his consort.

"Speak, Daughter…" she said, green eyes glowing.

"Honored Mother," Xyor began. "Parasites attacked and destroyed a Birthing. Eight Unborn, lost in the Deep."

"And you have come asking forgiveness?"

"No, Honored Mother. They came swiftly from their fortress, passing through the outer halls and killing the guards. I didn't believe they would make it as far as the Birthing, but—"

"Enough. What you conceal with many words is but your apology. You were assigned a task, you and your aides, and you have failed." Omnigul suddenly darted forward, capturing Xyor's face with a claw. Restraining her flinches Xyor stood passively as the Will examined her. "Aha…" Omnigul murmured. "I see you have sworn an oath. It is written plain in your eyes."

"One of the parasites," Xyor explained. "I told it of its coming demise. I told it that I would see it suffer for its trespass, before its own death, as I did to the Betrayer."

"I see." Omnigul turned and floated back to the statue, which was dark as ebony against myriad candles surrounding it. She bowed her head for a moment before turning back to Xyor. "Know what I hold in my hand?"

"No, Honored Mother."

"It is one of those creatures' own weapons. Spawned of an unholy alliance between the Sky and the Deep. A parasite tried to abandon the Sky but not its power, and turned to the Deep for help. This weapon is the result of its compact."

In Omnigul's hand was what Guardians would recognize as a hand cannon. It looked twisted and feral, not at all clean or bright.

"Honored Mother?" Xyor was confused.

"You vowed you would see one of those parasites the fruits of their labors, our wrath upon their city and the huckster god. You have given yourself a geas. It is something not sworn lightly. You have vowed to carry it out, to the end?"

"Yes, Honored Mother."

"You lack the strength of the Knight. Your magics did nothing against the parasites. As our God has said "If you cannot beat their strengths, infect instead their weakness". Take this, then, their weakness. It is a weapon forged in Light but transformed by the Deep."

Xyor reached out and took the cannon.

"With it shall you fulfill your geas," Omnigul said. "Aiat. Thus it shall be so."

Xyor murmured the words of sealing, and her geas was accepted.

"Do not fail again, my Daughter." Omnigul warned.

"Yes, Honored Mother. I will not." Bowing, Xyor, Daughter of Omnigul, turned and retreated. The Knights stood and left, following after, leaving Omnigul to the devotions of the Hive Gods of the Deep.

Deep below, in a world carven in the abscess of reality's flesh, Crota dreamed in waking sleep.

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

* * *

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

A/N: _This "Strike" is akin to The Summoning Pits, and takes place roughly after The Sword of Crota but before the Shrine of Oryx story missions, marking the first of the Vanguard Strikes against the Lunar Hive. The Guardians here are reincarnated characters from another story, and I must say they turned out quite differently than I expected and I enjoyed writing them._

 _Your feedback is welcome and appreciated, anything helps._

* * *

Beta-read by _dogmeathasdied_ and _Nail Strafer_.


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